


Tit for Tat

by fowl68



Series: Tit for Tat [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Divorce, F/M, Friendship/Love, Identity Issues, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Military Backstory, Mind Games, Murder, Original Character(s), Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 117,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowl68/pseuds/fowl68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things that Arthur and Eames know about each other. Ongoing. </p><p> </p><p>Arthur is the younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on fanfiction.net. This is not in chronological order. 
> 
> I do take suggestions for chapter pieces, in case you were curious.

* * *

 

_What do we ask of friendship except to be taken for what we pretend to be - and without having to pretend.  
~Robert Brault_

* * *

 

**Arthur is the younger brother.**

Eames was the only one who knew about the dog tags hidden beneath the neatly pressed shirts and suit jackets. Or rather, he was the only person who knew that they were not Arthur's. Not the real Arthur's. Eames was the only one to have seen the photo that is constantly folded and refolded and kept inside of Arthur's pillowcase while he slept.

The photo was slightly fuzzy and yellowed, the two boys' faces were clear. They're very nearly identical, save for the eyes and the way they wore their hair. One kept it cut short, bangs falling messily into his green eyes, and the other's curls were longer, brushing his chin and making coffee brown eyes seem a little smaller. They're both grinning wide, dimples and all, and their arms were around each other's shoulders, paintball guns in hand.

One had a streak of yellow across one cheek, the other had blue in the dark curls and they were wearing coveralls splattered with paint. They're standing among haystacks in front of a lake and they have the wonderfully exhausted look that boys tended to have after a day of play.

 _(Eames calls them boys, but in truth, they're really young men, seventeen years old, if the date scrawled on the back of the photo is to be believed. They just look so_ young. _)_

"He was my twin. Older by three minutes," Arthur had said one night. They had been lying low after a job gone a little sideways and, of course, the first flight out had gone to horridly humid Florida and even Arthur had forgone his suits in favor of relief from the humidity that made their clothes stick to them even indoors. Arthur had been sitting with his back against the air conditioning vent, white tank top making him look much closer to his twenty-six years.

Eames, who'd been sitting by the rotating fan that they had on high, had glanced over to Arthur. He hadn't known that the point man had noticed the way Eames had been quietly studying the dog tags hanging around his neck.

"We were in Iraq about five years ago when a bomb…well. These are his."

"Was that when the higher-ups recruited you?" Eames remembered the day that the Army had brought in the boy—no, young man—with hollow eyes and a sharp tongue.

"Mm."

It wasn't until a year later, when Eames got close enough to actually read the name on the dog tags, that he realized that something was off. The name read Arthur James Reynolds. It wouldn't have been so off if Arthur hadn't mentioned that the dog tags were his twin brother's.

"Why'd you take your brother's name?" Any idea of tact that Eames might have had was gone one night over celebratory drinks down at the local Irish pub.

If Eames weren't such a master of reading Arthur, he wouldn't have noted the loss of control. As it was, he saw the sudden tightness in the shoulders beneath the white dress shirt, saw the way that his colleague's hands were suddenly gripping the glass full of whiskey so tightly that Eames half-feared it would shatter. Arthur certainly had the strength for it, whatever one might infer from the lean frame.

"Eames, on this subject, I'm telling you to drop it. Right now." His voice was serious and soft. Arthur at his most dangerous.

Eames simply leaned back languidly, one elbow on the counter. In any other circumstance, if Arthur had warned him off like that, Eames would have backed off. But something about this made Eames need to know the answer. "No." He said simply.

Were one to ask Eames exactly how and when Arthur snatched him by the collar of his shirt and out into the alley beside the bar, Eames wouldn't be able to tell you.

Something in him said that he should've expected the reaction he got after that warning, but he was too accustomed Arthur's incredible self-control.

Arthur's brown eyes were narrow and his knuckles digging into Eames' collarbone where his fist was clenched in Eames' shirt collar. "You're pushing this. Why?"

"Survivor's guilt, darling?" Eames asked, feeling slightly suicidal. "You were with your brother that day, weren't you?"

Eames had seen the scars mottled against Arthur's side. They're burnt red and brown, marring the paleness of the surrounding area.

"Is that why?" Eames continued. "You wanted to keep your brother alive?"

"Stop psychoanalyzing me," Arthur snapped. "I'm not a mark."

"Then tell me."

Arthur seemed to consider it. "Tit for tat, Mr. Eames. Tell me about the wire transfers to a civilian bank account under the name of Sherallyn Evans in Edinburgh."

Eames repressed a flinch, but only just. He shouldn't be surprised that Arthur had managed to dig that up. The man knew how to get information. He'd forgotten, momentarily, just how ruthless Arthur could be when he got defensive.

"Fine. Consider it dropped." Arthur released him and began striding out of the alley. Before he reached the main street, Eames called, "What's your real name, Arthur?"

"Tit for tat!" Arthur's voice floated over his shoulder.

The man knew how to bargain.

-/-/-/-

Eames tried. He really did. He put his contacts and technological skills to use, trying to track down traces of an Arthur James Reynolds. There were several, which didn't surprise him. Even if his Arthur—the one who liked his coffee Columbian with two sugars and milk, never cream—had been the only one, he would have put out several false trails.

There were two in California, one in Mississippi, another three in France, six in Italy and two in England. And those were just the more promising looking ones.

It took seven months for Eames to give in. He watched from across the room as Arthur searched his pockets, most likely for a pen—those, he was terrible about misplacing—and instead pulled out a small green Post-It. Eames watched him read it, saw the brow furrow momentarily in confusion before it cleared in understanding.

"So who was Eames?" Arthur asked that night when it was just the two of them in the small, abandoned factory that they were using as a home base.

"Delightful old man that lived three doors down when I was growing up. Used to tell the most interesting stories."

"I'm sure." Eames watched as Arthur deliberately pulled out a lighter—really, the man was prepared for everything. A Boy Scout as a child, perhaps?—and burned the Post-It. "…Cameron."

"Pardon?"

"My name was Cameron."

"Like the actress?" Arthur glared and Eames couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm sorry, darling, but really, it's the only other person I've ever heard who is named that."

"My mother thought she was having different sex twins. No one thought to tell her that there were two boys in the crib when they asked her for the names."

"I don't feel nearly as bad now."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, at least Allen is a boy's name."

"If it makes you feel any better, you don't look anything like a Cameron."

One of Arthur's slim eyebrows arched. "Oh really? And what does a Cameron look like, exactly?"

"Like a boy who's rather confused."

Arthur gave a short, startled laugh. "And Allen Reed sounds like he should be sitting in the corner of the library doing trigonometry homework."

"Touché."

-/-/-/-

The first time Eames saw the photo had been on a flight with Arthur back to the States. More specifically, Arizona.

Arthur, never one to fidget, had been unfolding and refolding this piece of paper along its creases for the last half hour of the flight. Eames' curiosity finally won out and he leaned over to see what it was.

He was startled to see a photograph. It wasn't what he'd been expecting.

"Your brother?" Eames asked, studying it.

"Yes. A year before we went into the Marines."

"You mean before the stick got stuck up your ass?" Eames asked casually.

"Your sarcasm is always appreciated, Mr. Eames," Arthur retorted, folding the photo and placing it in his inside jacket pocket.

Eames never asked why that particular flight had had Arthur fidgeting. It was years later that he remembered seeing the date on the newspaper proclaiming it to be October twenty-fourth—a mere month before Eames' birthday—and he clicked it together.

Six years to the day Arthur James Reynolds was killed in Iraq.

**Arthur met Mal before he met Cobb.**

Mal had linked arms with Eames as they walked through Marseille, the salt of the ocean tingeing the air. "I've met someone."

"Oh?"

She had pushed his shoulder playfully. "Not like _that_ , Eames."

He'd laughed. "Of course not. I doubt any man would be able to tame you enough to marry you." Mallorie Rousseau was a fiercely independent woman; as lovely as she was daring. "So who is this someone?"

"He is supposed to be quite skilled, or so his military records say."

"Anyone can fake records, darling."

"Then it won't hurt to have lunch with him."

When Eames saw who was waiting for them at the small seaside café, he'd burst out laughing. Mal and Arthur had both stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Eames only grinned at Mal. "You have excellent taste, my dear."

**Arthur learned French in high school.**

"You're joking?"

"I'm absolutely not," Arthur said. He was sitting on the sofa in Mal's apartment, her feet in his lap and Eames in a cozy armchair, all nursing a glass of wine.

"You learned French for a girl? She must have been something special."

Arthur smiled. "She seemed like it then."

"How old were you?" Mal asked.

"I must've been…fourteen, maybe fifteen. I'd just transferred to a new school—again," Military brat, Eames' mind supplied and he noted the singular nouns. Arthur was very good at hiding the fact that he was not an only child. "And then this girl walked by, looking like an angel in a sundress."

Mal laughed. "All first loves feel like that."

Eames smirked, settling more comfortably into his chair. "Where did the French come in?"

"She was one of those popular kids and she needed a French tutor, or so I was told."

"You learned it to get close to her? Not even to impress her? I hope you got that girl."

"I did. We were together for three months."

"A lifetime in 'igh school," Mal said. "What about you, Eames? Who was your first love?"

Eames glanced at Arthur. Had it been anyone but Mal, he wouldn't have answered. "Her name was Sherrallyn. We were…seventeen."

"Did you see paradise by the dashboard light?" Arthur asked and Eames was surprised at the reference. Arthur had never struck him as a man who would like Meatloaf.

"I did, actually." Eames glanced over to Mal. "And you?"

"Eames, you've known for eight years," Mal laughed. "Do I seem like the type to fall in love?"

"It'll happen eventually," He told her.

"I doubt it, but if it does, I promise, you two will be the first to know."

**Arthur's loyalty has its hierarchy. Eames was third on the list until Mal's death.**

"Mr. Reynolds, where are you?"

Arthur wondered if it was a bad thing that he had no trouble understanding Eames through his slur, even over the phone. "Stateside. And let me guess, you're outside a bar at a payphone, hoping for a ride home."

"You know me too well." There was a broken sound. "She's gone, Arthur."

Arthur sighed and massaged the bridge of nose. He'd been trying very hard not to think about it, which was a very difficult sound when Dom was gone and the Phillipa and James were always asking after _maman_ and when was daddy coming home? Arthur had to pick up Mal's parents tomorrow at the airport.

"…I know, Eames."

"World seems very grey without 'er."

"That's because you're in England, Eames. It's always grey there." Arthur was trying hard to keep a tight grip on his emotions because, after all, he'd loved Mal too. Even this house, warm and filled with both Dom and Mal's little touches, felt cold and bleached of color. Arthur was suddenly fiercely wishing to see one of Eames' hideous shirts if only to see something other than washed out memories.

Eames' laugh was a bitter sound. "Come with me, Arthur. I know a place wit' color. Very warm there."

"No. I have to go after Dom. He's gone to hide out in Santiago."

"Not very colorful this time of year."

"That'll change."

Eames was quiet for a minute. Finally he said, "Good luck, Arthur."

The dial tone seemed to echo in the too quiet house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames was the one who didn't trust Cobb at first, not Arthur.

* * *

 

_The friend is the man who knows all about you, and still likes you._

_~Elbert Hubbard, **The Notebook** , 1927_

* * *

 

**Eames likes being a father. But he can't deny his nature, much as he might want to.**

Arthur has only ever seen the locket twice. The first time had been an accident, his eyes automatically drawn to it and Eames had quickly stuffed the slim gold chain beneath his shirt once more.

The second time had been a few nights after he, Eames and Mal had been slightly tipsy on good red wine and the sweet days of youth. They had been unofficially sharing an apartment then, their clothes and toothbrushes somehow all ending up in Mal's studio apartment. Their books—or rather, Arthur's books—nearly ended up there as well, but none of them had been willing to carry boxes of them up eleven flights of stairs when the elevator was broken and very likely not getting fixed any time soon.

Mal had already been asleep—she was one of those strange type of morning people that could fall asleep at any time and always wake up at four in the morning, much to Eames' horror—when Eames plopped himself down on the couch beside Arthur.

Arthur glanced up from his book. He nearly went right back to it, but he spotted the odd look in Eames' eyes. So he closed his book, holding his place with his finger, and waited patiently for Eames to find his words.

"She was my wife."

Whatever Arthur had been expecting, that wasn't it. He blinked at Eames, trying to follow his train of thought. "Sherallyn?"

Eames nodded and his hands are twisting something around his fingers. It took Arthur a moment to recognize the gold chain. The last time he'd seen it had been years ago. "It was before I joined the military, before I ever even considered that something like dream-sharing could even exist. I tried settling down. It worked for a little while. Long enough for us to have a little girl."

Somehow, the idea of Eames as a father was easier to picture than Eames as a husband. "How old is she now?"

"She must be…fourteen?" Eames laughed and it sounded a little hollow. "Not that it really matters. I haven't seen her since she was eight."

"Sherallyn not letting you?"

Eames shook his head. "No, no. She-she's fine with me visiting. But…I don't want to half-ass being a father. I can't be a forger and a father at the same time. Not if I'm going to do either job properly."

Arthur knew better than to suggest that Eames quit being a forger. It would be akin to asking him to quit breathing, to quit smiling. "Do she and Sherallyn know? About you being a forger?"

"Sheral does. I don't know whether she's told Amara."

Amara. Arthur rolled the name around in his mind. "Pretty name," he said finally.

Eames smiled a little. "We certainly thought so." He rolled the locket in his palm. "Pretty name for a pretty girl. That's what Sheral's father said when he saw her. I agreed, but I thought we were slightly biased."

Arthur found himself reaching over to take the locket. What surprised him was the lack of resistance, even if it would have been instinctive. He clicked it open and found the small photo. The little girl was grinning proudly, missing tooth and all. She had dark blonde curls that were tied back rather haphazardly with a purple bow and her sundress was orange with yellow Hawaiian flowers printed on it.

Even if she hadn't had his eyes, Arthur thought, only Eames could find clothes so powerfully clashing.

The little girl would have grown up by now, would have learned to smile more carefully subtly, the way that the world often taught children to do. But Arthur's sure that she would still be just as beautiful.

"You are biased," Arthur told him. "But you and your father-in-law were right."

Eames' smile was as brilliant as the little girl's.

**Eames was the one who didn't trust Cobb at first, not Arthur.**

"You're paranoid, Mr. Eames," Arthur said when yet again, he woke in the middle of the night to the forger tapping away at Arthur's laptop. Usually, Arthur would have been concerned on how, exactly, Eames had bypassed all the security, but since it was just them and it was two o' clock in the morning, he wasn't prone to caring very much right now.

"No one is this clean, darling," Eames said patiently, sitting cross-legged on the covers at the foot of Arthur's bed, his back broad enough to shield Arthur from the worst of the screen's glow.

"People who aren't criminals usually are. He's an exchange student from Middle of Nowhere, Montana that's here to study architecture."

"I don't trust him."

Arthur chuckled tiredly. "That's because he's with Mal. Otherwise, I doubt you'd care very much."

Eames glanced back at him. "You seem terribly nonchalant about all this." Arthur only grinned a little. "You wanker. You already did the background check, didn't you?"

Arthur caught the pillow that Eames threw at him. "I'm surprised you didn't ask me to do it earlier."

"Why didn't you tell me that you'd already done it?" Eames narrowed his eyes at him. "You wanted me to suffer, didn't you?"

"Maybe a little." Arthur yawned. "Go to bed, Mr. Eames."

Eames grumbled, but obeyed.

**The tattoos on Eames' torso grow with every friend lost.**

It had started off small, Eames had confessed once. He'd gone when he was nineteen with his best friend to get it—a small, tribal sun inked in dark blue on his upper left shoulder.

Arthur hadn't said anything, simply continued cleaning the bullet hole the forger's arm.

"I was on leave for a few weeks and we were going to meet at a casino. It was going to be his twenty-first birthday and he wanted to be playing twenty-one at midnight and have twenty-one girls' numbers."

"An interesting celebration."

Eames didn't smile. That was what concerned Arthur the most. "He'd been planning it since we were sixteen."

He went quiet after that and Arthur almost didn't ask, almost wanted to go find the information on his own because Eames simply shouldn't be quiet this long. It was unnatural.

"What happened to him?"

"Car accident. Died on impact. Police report said that it was some teenagers that were texting."

Arthur glanced up. That sun had a crescent moon hooked onto it. Most people would have put a name, but names were dangerous in their profession. "So you added the moon."

"Two days after. For remembrance. As a reminder."

Arthur finished cleaning the hole and started wrapping it. "…I knew a man who had a hole like this clean through his shoulder. Used to keep a spare hankie in there."

Eames snorted and, while it wasn't a smile or even laughter, it was close enough. "Is that true, darling?"

Arthur hummed a yes. "Last I heard, he's living in retirement in Little Havana down in Miami, and smoking fifteen cigars a day."

"Man's a walking medical miracle is what he is."

Arthur was glad he'd managed to get Eames off of the subject of his tattoos. Not that it wasn't fascinating, in a strangely morbid kind of way, but Arthur didn't quite want to know the stories behind each of the winding designs on his arms and chest. And he wouldn't ask why the area right above his heart was perfectly blank and surrounded by designs, as though it were waiting for something.

**Eames' book collection is just as expansive as Arthur's, if in a different way.**

" _The Princess Bride?_ " Arthur asked, running his finger down the spines of the books. It was a habit of his when he searched for something printed.

"Have you never read it, darling?"

"Of course I have. It's a classic." He had his own dog-eared copy from high school at home.

Eames laughed. "Well, even you can have some sense sometimes, I suppose."

"Anne Rice and Laurell K. Hamilton? I never quite pictured you as the vampire type."

"I'm perfectly alright with vampires. They simply have to be written properly."

Arthur continued down the shelf, ignoring the way that Eames' eyes followed him. It wasn't always a conscious decision on the forger's part. He was always watching people. It was habit by now.

Where Arthur kept more mythologies and classical literature, Eames seemed to have something for every possible subsection of fiction. Hardback copies of _Harry Potter_ , _Lord of the Rings_ with yellowed, well-worn pages, realistic fiction, historical fiction, anything. Quite a bit of poetry as well. Except, notably, anything with space.

"Not a fan of astronauts?"

"To be perfectly honest, it doesn't interest me so much."

"And the movies?" Arthur looked over at him. "You have seen _Star Wars,_ haven't you?"

Eames snorted. "Of course I have, darling. I'm not nearly the uncultured heathen you think I am."

Arthur smiled. "Looks like God can work miracles."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's favorite book is about a boy who never grew up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am editing this as I go. This isn't exactly the same as it was back on fanfiction.net only because I've been reading back on some of the chapters and details have slipped over time. They're not likely to be big changes though. So I'll be fixing those as best I can.

* * *

 

_The antidote for fifty enemies is one friend.  
~Aristotle_

* * *

**Arthur's favorite book is about a boy who never grew up.**

"Unka Artie! Read us a story!" Phillipa pleaded, all big blue eyes in a child's chubby face. She adored her uncle.

"Story!" James repeated, still young enough that he couldn't quite string his words into sentences.

Arthur smiled indulgingly at them. _(This, Eames thinks, is the Arthur he likes best. The one that is easy smiles and warm embraces and he tries not to be jealous that this Arthur is reserved almost entirely for James-and-Phillipa.)_ He was slouched rather comfortably on the couch, sleeves rolled up his forearms and vest unbuttoned. He'd left his shoes by the door and the warmth of the room was making his hair curl.

"Which one would you like me to read?"

Phillipa dashed away and they heard a small racket as she dug through their collection of books. Dom chuckled as he took a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Arthur, a glass of eggnog in hand. Eames was making himself some spiced tea—he'd have liked some more eggnog himself, but he still had to drive back to the hotel—and Mal was settled in an armchair by the tree, her hair swept up off her neck into a bun.

The book in Phillipa's hands when she came back was a swampy green with darker green vines inked along the spine to curl around the title. Arthur took the book and allowed Phillipa to settle herself against his shoulder, James in his mother's lap. " _Peter Pan?_ "

"Yeah. Have you read it before, Unka Artie?"

"Lots of times. It's actually one of my favorites," he told her, pulling a pair of glasses out of the inside pocket of his vest and settling them on his nose _just so_ before opening to the first page. "All children grow up," he read. Arthur really did have a nice voice, Eames thought, quiet, but with a steady cadence. "Except one…"

* * *

 

" _Peter Pan?"_ Eames asked, pulling a box of cigarette out, offering one to Arthur.

"Don't look so surprised, Mr. Eames." Arthur pulled out a lighter reflexively, lighting Eames' cigarette as well as his own.

"It's not what I pictured from you."

"Yes, because dream thieves must always fit into our boxes, mustn't we?" He smirked at him.

"A fair point."

They were silent for a long time, sitting out on the doorstep—Dom never allowed them to smoke inside—and enjoying the sight of snow on the ground and the cold that nipped at their faces. Arthur hadn't had a Christmas like this since before he and his brother left to join the Marines. Then again, he hadn't really been home since then.

Eames was the first to break the silence, as he was often wont to. "Why?"

"A bit of specificity would be appreciated."

"Why do you like a story about a boy who never grows up so much?" Eames raked an eye over his companion. "You seem like just the opposite. Twenty—what, four? Five?"

"Twenty-six in February."

Eames ignored the fact that Arthur was probably lying, about the month at least. "Twenty-six and dressing like you're some wealthy CEO."

Arthur exhaled some smoke slowly, giving himself time to think about his answer. "...My brother and I used to do all those things in that book. We'd play cowboys and Indians in the schoolyard, we'd pretend to be pirates before bed..." Eames wondered if Arthur was entirely aware of the fond smile on his lips. "He used to tell me that, one day, we'd go to the beach and we'd find a mermaid and she would fall madly in love with him and take him away down below the ocean to live with her."

_("Don't worry, I'll come back for you." Arthur's green eyes are earnest and familiar, the first eyes that Cameron can ever remember. "And we'll live down there forever as kings of the ocean!")_

"I take it he was the real dreamer out of the two you then?"

The smile faded from Arthur's face. "I suppose you could say that." He dropped the cigarette and put it out with the toe of his shoe. "What about your favorite book?"

He'd expected the question. Arthur was a man of balance, after all. Information exchanged for more information. "Mine?" Eames thought about it. " _The Great Gatsby."_

"Interesting."

"You're the one that said we don't all fit into boxes."

"Why?"

"No specificity from you, darling?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Why _The Great Gatsby?"_

"I don't know if the thought ever occurred to you, darling, but the dashing gentleman that sits beside you wasn't raised in high society."

"Really?" the younger man drawled. "I never would have thought."

"I suppose I saw myself in Gatsby. Or rather, what I wanted to be."

"A bootlegger?" Arthur was giving him the chance to avoid the explanation, which was more than the forger had given him. But Arthur had given him an explanation and therefore, Eames owed him one as well.

"A person who made themselves different from what they were born as."

"And always pining for someone they can't have?"

Eames glanced sideways at Arthur. "No. I'm far too old for that sort of thing."

Arthur snorted and pushed himself to his feet. "That's because you still miss your typewriter. And I suppose that pining is more like Dom's thing, before he and Mal got together. It was kind of pathetic."

Eames chuckled. "True. Ah, I do believe I forgot," Arthur turned back, hand on the doorknob. "Happy Christmas, darling."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Eames."

**Arthur has a sister too.**

"…I know you."

Dom, Mal, Eames and Arthur all turned at the voice. The young woman was tall, all slender lines and lean curves, long hair tucked up messily in a bun with a few pencils. She was carrying a water-stained notebook and a textbook under one arm. The Aerosmith shirt she wore was several sizes too big and worn thin—a favorite shirt then, or a very old one—and her jeans were pale blue with too many washes.

Her hazel eyes narrowed at Arthur before they widened and she dropped the books she was carrying to stride right up to him, utterly fearless and eyes blazing. Arthur's head cracked to the side with the force of her slap.

"You son of a _whoring bitch."_

Dom and Mal sensed that they should perhaps step back, but Mal was the one to actually tug at her husband's hand. Very few people knew Arthur's face outside of the dream business—and there were only a handful in the business that knew it too—so clearly this was personal. Dom tried to get Eames to join them, but Eames waved him away.

Arthur put a hand to his cheek, staring at the young woman. "...Wilhelmina?"

She glared at him. "Don't call me that. It's Mina. And _don't_ ," Mina punctuated the word by poking Arthur in the chest. "Give me that look like you don't know what you did. You left us back home, A, and B, you didn't even come for the funeral. We haven't seen you in almost six years. No card, no email saying, 'Hey, I'm not dead, just to let you know'."

Seeing as, for the first time, Arthur seemed almost at a loss for words, Eames stepped in. "To be fair, sweetheart, it wouldn't have been very easy, you see—"

Mina rounded on him and, in her anger, Eames could most certainly see the resemblance. Her brow furrowed in that same spot and her eyes blazed with the same fire. "And you, don't make excuses for him. He's an adult, he can make them for himself since, clearly, he can decide not to tell us he's alive by himself." She'd been about to turn back to Arthur, but she looked at Eames almost as in afterthought. "Oh, and don't call me 'sweetheart'."

Mina was absolutely Arthur's sister.

"Mina, will you give me a chance to explain at least?" Arthur asked quietly.

She looked about to refuse, but seemed to think better of it. "You can buy me lunch."

* * *

 

Eames was the one to wait up for Arthur in the warehouse where they were currently working. "Quite a girl, your sister."

Arthur glanced up before setting his suit jacket on the back of his chair and starting to make himself a cup of coffee. "Yeah, I suppose."

"You didn't recognize her, did you?"

Arthur's movements only hesitated for a moment before he continued. "…No, I didn't."

"She would've been, what, seventeen, when you left? Eighteen, at the most?"

"Fourteen, actually. She's graduating from the University of Verona this year."

"Graduating? At twenty?"

"Mm." Arthur tilted a strange smile at him. "She graduated early from high school."

"I can see that." Eames paused, pondering which direction to take this conversation. He decided on the easier path. He would have plenty of time to question Arthur on how smart, exactly, his family was later. "What is she studying?"

"Art restoration."

Eames smiled. "I didn't think her for the classics."

Arthur poured his mug of coffee and went to sit at his desk. "The Aerosmith shirt didn't give it away?"

"You consider them classic rock?"

"You don't?"

"…That shirt was yours, wasn't it?" The loose fit, the way that the shoulder seams, for her, ended halfway down her upper arms...it fit.

Arthur paused in his writing—he probably intended to work through the night to make up for the work he'd missed today, Eames thought. "…My brother's and mine, yes."

"You shared clothes?"

One of Arthur's shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. "What siblings don't?"

Eames left after that, sensing that Arthur needed time with his thoughts. But he grinned at Dom and Mal's confused expressions when he began playing Aerosmith the next day while they worked, particularly when Arthur didn't complain about it.

**Eames never wants to see Arthur go cold again.**

Arthur had two kinds of anger, Eames had decided. The hot anger was the kind the forger brought out almost on a daily basis when they were together. The kind where Arthur snapped and snarled at him, where they argued back and forth on little things; the kind that made Arthur's shoulders tense and his lips flatten into a thin line.

The other anger has been dubbed as the cold anger by Eames. He's been fortunate not to have had to see it very often. When Eames could still dream, it had been the subject of his nightmares once or twice _(Those nightmares turned into a very different kind of dream not long afterwards, but that was an entirely different issue)_.

As the name suggested, at those times, Arthur froze. He wasn't Cameron Reynolds who took his dead twin brother's name anymore. Wasn't Uncle Arthur who read to his godchildren and hoisted them onto his shoulders. Wasn't even Arthur with his meticulous nature and tailored suits. At those times, all those people vanished and only the Point Man was left.

_(Before he sees Arthur go cold, Eames never realizes that Arthur has as many personas as he does.)_

Arthur's expressions fade away, all warmth draining from brown eyes. His body goes slack in the way a snake's does, with that underlying threat of violence just waiting beneath the surface. Everything is measured, precise, nothing done without reason.

The first time that Eames saw the Point Man was a year after Mal had gotten the three of them together to make their own strange, ragtag team. And someone had gotten the brilliant idea to get the information they wanted about the extraction from Mal, who, as the woman, was naturally seen as the weak link. Eames had smiled grimly when Arthur had first called him. They'd have their hands full with the woman that Eames affectionately called Hellcat.

He met Arthur outside the building that the point man had tracked them to. He looked too polished for what they were about to do, too neat. Black gloves encased his hands _(Artist hands, long-fingered and slender)_ and for someone with whom Mal was very practically family—her father often insisted on having Arthur over for family dinners—he was far too calm.

"Think they're still alive?" Eames asked. He could feel his gun pressing lightly against the small of his back, hidden by his least favorite tweed jacket. He could afford to get this one bloody at least.

"If they are, they won't be soon enough." Arthur's voice was Eames' first clue that something was very much wrong. It was too silky, too dangerously soft.

"Up and away."

Arthur was a rather direct person. He didn't like to beat around the bush. Because of that, Eames expected Arthur to simply break down the door. Instead, Arthur quickly and easily picked the lock  _(Eames had taught him well)_ and stepped inside.

The men inside—Russian, naturally—whirled and Eames caught his first glimpse of Mal. She was tied to the chair and her face was bruised and bloody, one eye swollen shut. But, at the very least, the Russians were sporting some rather nasty bruises themselves and—had she bitten one of them? Eames felt the anger swell in him at her condition, but let Arthur take the lead because that was what point men did.

"Gentlemen," Arthur greeted in that silky voice, holding out his hand like it was any other day.

They ignored his hand. "You are here for the girl, yes?"

"Well, I'm not here for the company, that's for certain. Shall we just get on with it then? You let her go and we all go home better off."

"The American is insane," one of them, the shorter, balding one, said. "Why should we give her up to you? She is worth more."

"Than your lives?" Arthur asked blandly. "Then again, I suppose they weren't worth much to anyone really. I bet your mothers gave you away as soon as she saw you."

Eames remembered frowning at that, thinking that it didn't sound like Arthur. But the Russians had immediately started for him.

None of them saw the Point Man move. One, who Eames had seen pull a knife and was already reaching for his gun to deal with him, was left with a snapped wrist and the other had that same knife held to his throat.

"That was your one chance to get out of here alive, by the way." The Point man smiled then, gentle and coldly sweet. It made a shiver go down Eames' spine. The knife flashed and the man was soon gurgling his life out on the bad carpet. Before Eames could take the cue to shoot the other one, Arthur beat him to it. One bullet to the head, clean, precise and cold.

At that moment, Eames knew that there was no line Arthur wouldn't cross to keep his people safe.

Eames' only question about the gun was 'where had he been keeping it?' There hadn't been the faintest outline on the back of Arthur's suit jacket or waistband or even along his thigh in case he got to it through his pocket. A front cross draw would have been too obvious and Arthur didn't often wear shoulder holsters.

Eames crossed the room to Mal. "Can you hear me?"

Mal blinked her good eye at him and Eames wondered if he could convince Arthur to bring the Russians back to life so they could kill them more slowly. Violence towards women was the one thing Eames hated with a passion. "Eames."

"Hello, Cat. Did you give them hell while we were gone?" He set to work cutting her free of the ropes around her wrists and ankles.

"Would I ever do anything less?" As soon as she was free, Mal looked up at the Point Man who was staging the room. "What's the story, Arthur?"

It was like magic. At Mal's voice, the Point Man melted away and Arthur was back. Granted, it was the Arthur who was methodical and always did the job, but at least there was human emotion on him.

"These two got in an argument over something. It got violent."

"Simple, to the point. I like it." Mal stood, wobbling slightly on her feet. She caught Arthur's arm as he walked by her, still staging believable damage to the furniture and walls. "Are you alright?"

"I should be asking you that."

"I'm fine, honestly. It looks worse than it is. Now, your turn to answer."

"Same answer." Arthur glanced out the window, forever feeling eyes on him, regardless of whether they were actually there or not. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

 

Eames was the one to patch Mal up. Not because Arthur couldn't or didn't want to, but because Mal had shooed him out the door, telling him to clear his head and that he could fuss at her later.

As Eames gently pressed ice against the left side of her face, which was the more battered side, she asked, "Did he frighten you?"

Eames glanced up at her. "Arthur?"

"Who else?"

"No." He surprised himself with his honesty. At first, he'd been a little uneasy, not sure what had happened to the man that had somehow become a friend and occasional lover, but there'd never been any fear. Perhaps it was because he knew that all that subtle violence that rippled beneath Arthur's skin had never—and most likely would never be—directed at him. In the real world at least. In the dream, Arthur sometimes gave into his urges and shot Eames.

"He gets a little overprotective sometimes."

Eames found himself chuckling as she brought up a hand to hold the ice pack. He wet a cloth and gently dabbed at her split lip. "Only a little?"

"He gets very protective of women."

"You can take care of yourself. He saw to that personally." Arthur had taught her self-defense and he would have taught it to Eames as well if he hadn't seen the forger in the Army training.

"Yes, but, sometimes, I think he was raised to be that boy who comes to girls' rescues."

"A regular knight in shining armor."

Mal smiled at him and kissed his cheek. "And with his loyal squire in tow."

**Arthur is a light sleeper.**

Eames frowned at the lock he was picking. Trust Arthur to get the most damned difficult one to open. He froze as he felt the lock turn, not by his own hands, and the door swing open. He glanced up.

Arthur stood there, one hand on the doorknob, the other in his pocket. The ROTC shirt he wore was loose on his thin frame and old enough to have a few holes. His hair was mussed from sleep—and what a rare sight that was—and the dark blue sweatpants rode a little low on slim hips.

The point man arched an eyebrow. "Mr. Eames...is there a reason you're breaking into my apartment at," Arthur looked back into the apartment, craning his neck to see the clock on the microwave. "Two thirty-seven in the morning?"

"Would you believe it was to surprise you, darling? And is that a pistol that you're holding in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

"No original material from you? I'm disappointed." Arthur raked an eye over the forger. "Who's after your head this time?"

Eames straightened up, slipping his lock-picking tools back into his pocket. "The usual. Multi-million companies, a few people I've annoyed one too many times." He slid past Arthur into the apartment.

It was Arthur's 'real' apartment, as Eames had dubbed it. These days, only he and Dom knew where it was. The furniture was all clean lines and smooth, dark wood. But, at the same, time, it wasn't imposing. The books on the shelves were well-worn and without a real method of organization—unlike Eames, who liked to organize his books by topic.

_(Arthur grins the first time he sees Eames' collection, very much twenty-three years old. "And you accuse me of having OCD."_

_"You do. My organizational habits extend only to my books and my kitchen.")_

The coffee table had stacks of books on it, bookmarks poking out of them, some with tassels, others simple folded pieces of paper or Post-It's and a few with playing cards. His more recent reads, Eames thought.

A blanket was folded over the back of the couch—soft-looking and a smooth red color, like a good wine. Arthur's movie collection had its own bookshelf beside the TV. And quite a few of them were still on VHS.

_("I would've thought you one to keep up with the times." Eames says the first time._

_Arthur shrugs a little. "This is cheaper."_

_Eames has come to the conclusion that Arthur must not have had a whole lot of money growing up. Even now, with all the money that he's earned at his disposal, Arthur doesn't often indulge. Clothes and wine are his main indulgences. And books, naturally.)_

"Are you hurt?" Arthur asked, closing his door and locking it in an automatic motion. When he slipped his hand from his pocket, there was indeed a pistol in it. Eames wasn't surprised; Arthur would have assumed the worst when he heard someone breaking in.

"No. I thought to come here before that happened this time, actually. Save you some trouble."

"Astounding. You _can_ think things through."

"Did my lock-picking wake you from your beauty sleep, darling?" Eames used to think that Arthur had an alarm for that sort of thing, but in truth, it really was just Arthur's sharp hearing and his old military habits of refusing to sleep deeply.

"Yes, and if you don't mind, I'll be getting back to it. You know where the pillows and things are." It was a sign of how far Arthur-and-Eames had come that Arthur allowed the forger more or less free reign in his apartment.

"How late were you up working last night?" Eames called before the door to Arthur's bedroom closed.

"I got to bed a few hours ago." And while the point man was perfectly capable of functioning on very little sleep, he didn't like to.

"Good night then, darling. Or, good morning, I suppose."

Eames could picture Arthur rolling his eyes. "I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Eames." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! I wish I could say I got all dressed up for the occasion, but college got in the way since I had about three things due today.

* * *

 

  
_A true friend is one who thinks you are a good egg even if you are half-cracked.  
~Author Unknow_n

* * *

**Eames has always been a good forger. He just wasn't always the best.**

It had annoyed Arthur at first, when he was first learning the forger's process and was curious as to how Eames collected his information. Forging was still very new then and Eames had a knack for it. Eames had walked with Arthur down a street and asked him to choose someone.

"The woman in the gray scarf," Arthur said after scanning the area.

They'd tailed her for a while and Eames would murmur things, either to himself or Arthur. "She has weak ankles—see how she's a bit wobbly in those heels? She wouldn't wear those unless she was going to meet someone and since anyone she'd met before, she wouldn't need to impress like that, she's meeting someone new. An employer or a boss, perhaps. A business associate or a date, most definitely. Considering the cut of the dress, it's a date."

They'd sat in the café several tables away, Eames with a crossword that he wasn't actually doing. Instead, he wrote observations in the boxes. Arthur only knew what those observations were because he heard Eames saying them quietly as he drank his tea, writing with the other hand. Left-handed. Laughs with hand over mouth to hide dimple. When nervous, tugs at ear lobe. Was previously married—or is still married—by the strip of paler skin on the left ring finger. Used to have problems with eyesight because she squinted at the menu, but seemed to catch and correct herself. LASIK surgery, perhaps. Eames had pretended to drop something by her seat so that he could get a closer look at her face. Six freckles spattered across her nose, a birthmark by her ear, almost hidden by her hair.

When they returned to the hole-in-the-wall apartment they were using as a base—those days had been hard, when they were still starting out. They hadn't made their contacts yet. Their names hadn't been as well-known—Eames had gone under with Arthur.

The woman in the gray scarf—Amanda Pennyleaf, from Philadelphia—was there, waiting for him. Arthur tilted his head and circled her, searching for something off.

"Her hips were smaller," Arthur told him.

Amanda had frowned at him and Arthur gave him an approximate measurement with his hands.

After that, he'd always been willing to help Eames with his forges. As Eames practiced more, Arthur's help became largely unnecessary, but Eames always wanted him to take a look at the forged person for a final lookover. Arthur's attention to detail was invaluable for this.

**Eames is dyslexic.**

He hadn't noticed the terrible spelling then, had thought it was Eames' own strange shorthand. Arthur knew he had his own that his brother had hated trying to read.

_("Is that an R or a K?" Arthur asks, pointing to the offending word on the homework he was copying._

_Cameron glances at it. "An L and a C."_

_Arthur rolls his eyes. "If you ever work for the government, you should send their secret codes. No one would ever be able to tell.")_

* * *

 

He noticed it when Eames had gotten bored once. He'd started sketching out a comic strip on his legal pad. It had been simple, some strange mix of Little Red Riding Hood and Superman, but Arthur had stared at it for the longest time, unable to read what was in the thought and speech bubbles. It wasn't the handwriting—Eames' natural handwriting was almost childlike in its neatness—but the words themselves.

"A—are you really out of things to do? And B—what's that even say?"

Eames cursed under his breath when he saw the probem. "Dammit. I keep hoping I'll get it right. Sorry, darling."

* * *

 

Eames wasn't the only one who could observe people. Arthur had seen dyslexia before. A kid in his fifth-grade class had had it. But Eames was different. That kid—William Blake, Arthur remembered, who'd sat next to him most of the year—had usually just added or forgotten a letter in his words, or he'd forget to space the words because he was so concentrated on spelling them right. Eames had all the letters and spaced them right, but it was a jumble.

When Eames tried, like at meetings, he'd often be writing long after everyone else was done. Once, Arthur sat by his desk, not saying anything, and simply watched him write. He remembered everything, but he had to really concentrate on the words' spelling.

"You know how to spell them then," Arthur had said once Eames was done.

"Yeah. I memorized how to spell most words a while back."

"If you'd asked, I would've slowed down my talking to let you keep up."

Eames' eyes flashed with some old anger—not directed at Arthur, but at some faceless person. "I can handle it."

"I never said you couldn't. It's an option is all I'm saying."

After that, Arthur knew better than to try and treat Eames any differently from the other team members. It was also one of the places they wouldn't go when arguing. The same kind of place as the real Arthur James Reynolds and the girl with Eames' eyes.

**Eames likes DC over Marvel.**

The mark was a teenage boy, one who may or may not have seen something he shouldn't have. Their job was simply to see if he had and report back to the father.

Teenage boy liked comics. Dom had groaned when he'd heard that and Mal laughed. "This should be fun," she'd said, kissing her boyfriend's cheek.

"For you and your brothers, maybe." For that was what Eames and Arthur were to her. Brothers, the very best.

The first practice run they'd done, Arthur had given Eames a look that the forger wanted to take a picture of so he could have it forever. Utterly priceless.

"Batman, Eames?"

Eames grinned. The expression didn't work with the cowl. "Not a fan of the spandex, darling?"

"It's not the spandex. It's the hero. Batman doesn't suit you."

"Explain your reasoning."

"Your complete and utter lack of subtlety isn't enough?"

Eames laughed and, right before Arthur's eyes, the smooth, dark lines of Batman—not the new one, but the one from back in the day, when they growing up. Back in the days of Val Kilmer and Michael Keaton—morphed into the sharp angles and bright colors of a Joker that looked like he'd stepped out from the thin paper of the comic books, bright yellow flower on his lapel and all.

"Is this more my speed?" Eames hadn't bothered to change his voice and it was a disconcerting thing to hear the husky British accent from Joker's mouth.

"Closer, but you're not psychotic."

A smirk curled Joker's lips. "Are you absolutely certain of that, darling?"

"Yes."

Arthur's lack of hesitancy was apparently shocking enough that Eames lost the forge. But it made Eames smile. "…What a surprise." He paused for a moment, looking out over the city streets. The details weren't filled in yet, the buildings and businesses generic until they figured out whether the teenager would prefer Star City or Gotham. "No favorite hero for you?"

Arthur had begun walking, inspecting the details of the maze and testing the flexibility of the environment as the architect had designed it. "Spider-man."

"Really? Not Gambit? I would've thought you'd like a dashing mutant thief who has an accent and—"

"Also doesn't like to shave?" Arthur glanced back down from the fire escape he'd been climbing at Eames. "Don't think I don't see the parallel you're drawing."

Eames laughed, the sound bouncing and echoing off the empty streets. "You caught me. In all seriousness though, why Spider-man?"

That's their question of each other. It's always the why.

"I was the smallest kid on the block. I think you can figure the rest out."

Eames could certainly picture it. The scrawny, smart kid who probably got pushed around. The idea of being able to turn from that into a superhero with a gorgeous wife—it must have been a dream growing up. And yet, at the same time, he still found it strange to picture this Arthur—sleek and handsome, all slender, lean muscle and veiled danger—as the geeky kid who liked to raise their hand.

"More like Captain America."

Arthur didn't reply to that and Eames immediately knew why. Arthur wasn't fond of the military now, not after his brother. And Captain America must still strike a tad too close to home sometimes.

**Eames hogs the pillows.**

They'd slept together more than once—purely in the literal sense of the word. And they'd argued for hours on end before coming to an agreement. Eames could get the pillows—most of them—if Arthur got the blankets.

It was an uneasy alliance at first, but they managed to work it out. It had begun in the hard times, when they had to share beds sometimes from lack of money either for more space or for central heating. Arthur didn't complain about Eames' occasional gentle snores or the way he liked to sprawl out and Eames didn't complain about Arthur's cold feet sometimes pressing against him in the night or occasionally being kicked because Arthur still had nightmares.

_(They say that in their business, it gets to a point where people can no longer dream. And it's true. But dreams and nightmares are two different things and if Eames sometimes sees people he's killed, he doesn't mention it as much as Arthur doesn't mention seeing his dead brother lying in pieces at his feet)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur breaks, it's a silent affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this earlier--but if anyone has any ideas or something they want to see in this story, please let me know and I'll do my best to accommodate it!

 

* * *

 

_When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.  
~Henri Nouwen_

* * *

**When Arthur breaks, it's a silent affair.**

Eames had been with him when they got the news. The forger had been in Boston for a night before his next flight and had half-dragged Arthur from his hotel room out to dinner.

"It's a gorgeous night, darling," he'd insisted. "You're young. You should want to be out, dancing in the streets or something."

Arthur only raised an eyebrow, not really resisting Eames' hand on his elbow anymore as he was tugged through the halls to the elevator. "You have a very romantic view of younger people."

"Or you have a cynical one," Eames countered.

They find a small sandwich shop, nothing fancy, very mom-and-pop. Had Arthur chosen the place, Eames was sure that they'd be eating much more upscale, but since Eames had chosen, it was whichever place looked good first.

Arthur ordered a club sandwich with a glass of pop—Eames had laughed when he first heard the point man say that. It wasn't even quite a slip because Arthur hadn't ever meant to say 'soda'. Arthur truly didn't realize what he was saying or what that told Eames about where Arthur grew up—and Eames stuck with a beer and roast beef on rye with Swiss cheese. _"How very American,"_ Arthur had remarked.

Arthur didn't usually answer his phone at the table—his manners forever impeccable—but whoever was on the other line was very insistent. Eames had finally told him to pick up the damn phone so they could eat in peace.

His cell phone stopped ringing while Arthur wiped off the mayonnaise on his fingers and dug in his pocket for his phone. But they sent a text.

When Arthur saw the text, he went pale and so still that Eames could honestly believe him dead.

"Arthur?" Eames began tentatively. He'd never seen his friend like this.

Arthur said nothing, simply held out the phone. It took Eames a minute to decipher the words—the bright screen and letters didn't help his dyslexia—and by then, Arthur had given him the phone, stood up and left the shop.

The next time Eames saw him was a week later at the funeral of their best friend.

* * *

 

There was no sign of crying on Arthur's face, though Eames knew that he had. Or he would, at some point. Eames had had his cry this morning, when he'd woken up to the somber black suit that he had to wear to a funeral for someone he'd loved. He'd curled back up under the covers, face pressed against the pillow and hands clutching at the sheets and blankets around him and he'd wanted to hide under the covers forever, as though he was still a child who wanted to hide from the monsters.

The only problem this time was that the monsters were real and there was no hiding.

As they lowered her casket, Arthur placed two flowers—forget-me-nots and bluebells, her favorites because she loved their colors—on the coffin and it hurt a little more to realize that one of those flowers was because Dom couldn't be there because they thought that he'd killed her.

 _(It's ridiculous, quite frankly. Dom_ loved _Mal, would always love her because Mallorie Rousseau Cobb is someone that the more you try to stop loving her, the more you can't. Dom would never hurt her.)_

How painful it was, to see those two children—angelic and blonde and so lost-looking—with their hands wrapped around their grandparents' and to know that they wouldn't ever see their mother and—possibly—their father ever again. They didn't even seem to see anything around them, didn't notice their uncles there. They saw only the casket, knew only that their daddy was gone and that mommy was dead.

Eames slipped Arthur's phone in his jacket pocket as everyone began to trickle out. "You forgot this." Eames said quietly. To speak any louder would shatter the terrible quiet of graveyards.

Arthur didn't say anything, simply shifted his weight from one leg to another. Up close, he looked exhausted. His eyes were that tired, desperate look of someone who wanted nothing more than to sleep, but couldn't and, beneath the crisp suit, he looked terribly fragile.

"…Are you going to go back to Cobb?" Eames asked. He knew that, at some point this week, Arthur had found Dom and had gone to him because he loved Dom too.

_(He hears the rumors, hears people talking about their point man. Most of them are true, to an extent; Arthur is ruthless—when he wants to be—and he is deadly and he is the most unflinching point man Eames has ever worked with, but one thing Arthur is not is heartless. In truth, Arthur is quite the opposite; he just doesn't show it like other people do)_

"I won't leave him to exile." Arthur's voice was hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in days. Or like he'd been crying. "I'm going to the help him clear his name."

He was a stronger man than Eames. The forger didn't think he could look at Dom—God, _Dom_ , with broken eyes—without thinking of Mal and how good they'd had it. Not yet.

Eames put his hand on Arthur's shoulder, squeezing once before letting go and said, "You know where to find me if you need me, darling."

**Arthur jogs a few miles every morning.**

Eames saw him by accident. Eames wasn't one to be awake this early—honestly, five in the morning? It was madness—but he'd woken with an itch for a cigarette and he'd run out yesterday. The plan had been to pick some up on the way to the loft that was their center of operations this time, but the sudden craving had him groaning his way out of bed and getting dressed to go to the 24-Hour drug store down the street.

Once upon a time, he could have simply used a few of Arthur's. The point man didn't smoke nearly as much as the forger did except when he was stressed, but it had been a year and a half since Arthur quit cold turkey.

It had been on the way out of the drug store, pack in his pocket and a lit one already wobbling between his lips, that he saw him. Or rather, he saw a jogger. He had to do a double-take to realize that it was Arthur.

"Arthur!" He called and the point man stopped, glancing back before he began walking towards him.

It was a strange sight, the sweatpants and T-shirt with sneakers that looked like they'd been well-used. His dark curls fell forward into his eyes; it made him look years younger.

"Eames." Arthur raked his hair backward out of his eyes, an unconscious motion that Eames had seen him do even when his hair was gelled.

"Lovely morning, isn't it, darling?" Eames took a few steps back so that when he exhaled, the smoke wouldn't reach Arthur. The man had quit, and quite successfully too, but Eames knew that the thing about cigarettes was the addiction and Eames was an expert of addiction; he didn't need to be tempting Arthur back into smoking.

"I didn't think you were one to enjoy mornings before the sun's up." Arthur had a point. The sky was lightening in the east, but it was still largely dark outside, the early morning fog still settled low in the city.

Eames patted his pocket. "I needed a refill." He ran an eye over Arthur. The T-shirt was wet with sweat around the neck and in a line down his chest. "How long have you been running?"

Arthur glanced at his watch. "About an hour. I was nearly finished."

Eames didn't jog like Arthur did to help keep in shape—it would probably be a good idea, with their profession—because he figured that the constant running away from multi-million companies was more than enough exercise. But then again, their job descriptions were vastly different. Arthur's job was to go in first, was to be the one to make sure everyone else got out—and he was the best at his job for a reason. It was why he'd quit smoking in the first place.

_("I was too slow. I'm sorry." Arthur—or rather, Mr. Henry Griffith, as his current alias is. He is a wanted man, even if Dom and Mal aren't—stands by Dom's hospital bed. The injury hadn't been bad, as far as gunshot wounds went. In truth, Dom had been lucky. An inch to either side and it would've hit his femoral artery. But Arthur could have stopped it if his lungs hadn't suddenly decided to cough their way half up his throat._

_Mal pats his arm. "No one blames you, my friend. We are lucky we got out at all."_

_Arthur shakes his head. "It won't happen again."_

_He tracks down Eames after that and slaps his half-empty pack of cigarettes into the forger's hand. "Merry Christmas," he mutters._

_It's a question that Eames answers silently. It's Arthur asking the only other person who he's with on any kind of regular basis that also smokes to help him keep control of the cravings. Of course Eames says yes)_

"Join me for breakfast?" Eames offered.

"No thanks." Eames could see the list of things that he had to do today before going to the loft beginning to write themselves in Arthur's eyes.

"Alright then. See you at the loft in a few hours, but you should still eat."

"Mother hen," Arthur grumbled.

Eames would pick up an apple from the farmer's market on his way there and leave it on Arthur's desk. Not a green apple—Arthur liked sour things, but he didn't like the color green _(Arthur James Reynolds had had green eyes…One had even been intact after the bomb, the other half of his face a ruined mess. Cameron had been violently sick as soon as he'd seen that familiar green in the remains of his brother's face)._

Arthur saw it and frowned a little in confusion before his face smoothed in understanding. He didn't take a bite from it for another hour after he'd been at work, but Eames had smiled a little. When Dom asked about the apple, Eames had just said, "He's too skinny. The boy needs nourishment."

**Arthur almost always gives in to his mother and sister.**

"Darling, I'm flattered that you thought to invite me at all."

Arthur had his hands in his pockets and was leaning on Eames' desk. They hadn't left the warehouse right after the job that, for once, had gone smooth. Everything had been cleared out, mostly and they'd just been enjoying the quiet of the large space.

"My sister invited you." Arthur didn't believe in tact very much around Eames. "That's really the only reason why I'm asking you at all."

Eames frowned. "She saw me once, two years ago."

A slight smirk curled the corner of Arthur's lips. "Apparently, that was enough. She said that I should bring that 'sweetheart friend of mine'."

Eames burst out laughing. "I think that she and I are going to get along just fine."

"That's what concerns me," Arthur muttered. "She doesn't need an ally for Christmas."

* * *

 

Vermont. Cameron Reynolds had grown up in Vermont. Not Arthur, because the point man looked a little uncomfortable even as they stepped out of the gate at the airport. Eames spotted her immediately, leaning against one of the pillars, a book in one hand and the other in the pocket of her jeans. Smooth leather boots encased her calves, and her jeans with them, and her tall frame was only accentuated by the long, heavy coat.

"Mina," Arthur said as they neared and she looked up.

She hugged her brother immediately—they were almost the same height, Eames noted. Perhaps an inch in difference—and kissed his cheek. "You look like you're going to the hangman. Relax."

She turned to Eames then, switched the book over from her right hand and shook his hand. She had strong hands, Eames noted, and her shake was firm, but not overdone. "Wilhelmina Reynolds, but if you call me that, I can hurt you. I really don't know what Mom was thinking when she gave birth to me—"

"Probably the same thing that she was when she named him Cameron," Eames said, grinning wickedly at Arthur, who glared at him.

Arthur's sister laughed. "Probably. Call me Mina."

"Eames."

If she thought the lack of a first name was strange, she didn't make a mention of it. "Let's get your bags and get out of here. You guys got here early enough to avoid the real Christmas rush of everyone coming home, but there'll still be some traffic."

Mina's car was a dark blue Acura sedan, small and inconspicuous. She smiled sheepishly at them as they tried to make space for their things. "Sorry about the mess. I'm not the best at cleaning my car out."

Eames sat in the front—he was taller and had longer legs, so it made good sense—and he moved a small, square sketchbook with a paperclip holding the page. "You're an artist, right?"

"Something like that. Art world isn't the easiest to get into for someone just starting out."

"Do you do freelance?"

"On the side. I've been working as a teacher here until I get more settled and have a bit more money." Mina must have been able to sense Eames' natural curiosity. "You can look through that if you want."

"What grade have you been teaching?" Arthur asked, leaning forward and bracing one arm on the back of Eames' seat.

"First, actually."

"Oh dear God…you're teaching kids."

"Shut up, Cameron. I'm not that bad."

Arthur found himself smiling. "How many of them have you thrown things at so far?"

" _None_ , thank you very much. I do have control on my temper."

"I haven't seen any evidence of that."

Mina snorted as she shifted out into the next lane because the car in front of her was going slow. "That's because you're my brother. You can take it."

"You're very good." Eames said, flipping slowly through the sketchbook. "Do you do realistic?"

"Depends on my mood."

Eames laughed when he saw an entire page devoted to mazes and paradoxes, most of them recreations of existing works. "Sweetheart, you really are Ar—Cameron's sister."

Arthur tilted his head to see, even as Mina glanced at the page before her eyes went back to the road. "What? They're interesting."

Arthur bumped his head against the back of Eames' headrest, unable to hide the smile. He'd only had the one lunch with Mina, though they'd tried to keep in touch with e-mails, mostly through her insistence. It was nice to know that he had something in common with her.

"I never said they weren't."

Mina looked at her brother in the rearview mirror. "You like them too, Cameron?"

They didn't know each other anymore. The kids they'd been, playing soccer in the yard and racing each other to the ice cream truck and sharing couches, whether to read or to fight over the TV remote, they hadn't been those kids in almost a decade. But they could relearn each other, could be brother and sister in more than name again, even if a third of their trio had been missing for eight years.

Arthur lifted his face so she could see the smile. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

 

Arthur's mother was a small woman—"They get their height from their father." She explained later—and on the chubby side, but she showed the signs of being as good-looking as her children once. She hugged Arthur tight enough that Eames wondered how he wasn't choking or ribs weren't breaking.

She stepped back and eyed him critically. "You're too thin. Didn't they teach you to feed yourself in the army?"

Eames snorted, unable to help himself and he saw Mina smothering a laugh. Their mother rounded on him and he smiled charmingly. "I'm sorry, but I tell him that all the time."

Arthur's mother marched up to Eames, who was a good foot taller than her, and gave him the same analyzing look that she gave Arthur. "So you're the one that's been looking after my son?"

It must be a Reynolds family trait, Eames decided, to be as subtle as a battering ram. "…Yes?" He wasn't always beside Arthur, but they did their best to look after each other by unspoken agreement.

Both Mina and Arthur moved forward at the same time to say, "Mom, this is Eames."

"He's a coworker of mine," Arthur added.

"Oh really? And where exactly have you been working for seven years?"

"Cameron is actually quite the frightening lawyer." Eames interjected. "We work at the same firm. I've seen him in the courtroom—wouldn't want to go up against him."

Her eyebrows arched in the same way Arthur's did when he wanted to call Eames on his bullshit. "Oh really? And where did you get time for law school, Cameron?"

Arthur smiled, a good 'ol boy smile that wasn't his real one, but it still looked damn convincing. "If Mina can graduate early, I don't see why I can't. And the military footed the bill."

She seemed to doubt them still, but she stepped back to allow them in the house. The whole time, Mina didn't stop grinning.

Arthur kept his eyes on his feet as they walked through the house and immediately, Eames could see why. Photographs lined the walls. There were very few baby photos—of which Eames was sure that Arthur was fervently grateful—but there was always one thing that was the same in all of the ones in which Arthur appeared.

He was never alone. Even in the school pictures, Cameron-for it most certainly was him, with the warm brown eyes and gentle curls-wasn't looking at the camera. It was like someone had just called his name and he'd looked automatically to the person off-frame. In all of those, he was always searching for that person.

There were many with the twins. Arms hooked around each other with laughing smiles and up to their torsos in pool water. Them asleep on the sofa, each with an opposite armrest as a pillow, and half-curled into each other. Both of them dressed for a dance, dates on their arms. One with the both of them wearing bookbags and dressed in jeans and band T-shirts, indulging, identical smiles on their faces. Mina caught Eames looking—"First day of high school. Mom was surprised they made it that far since they were always getting into fights."

There were some with her in them as well. One that Eames liked quite a bit where Cameron had his arms wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin on her shoulder, and Arthur James Reynolds had one arm around both his siblings' shoulders and kissing his sister's cheek.

Eames saw the way Arthur refused to look at the photos and he caught his sleeve. "Darling, if you'd rather not be here, we can make our excuses."

Arthur looked at him and frowned. "It's Christmas."

Eames blinked, not sure where his friend was going with this. "Yes."

"They asked us to be here."

"Yes."

"So we stay."

How simple. Arthur never was good at saying 'no' to people he loved. Particularly if those people were female.

**It _is_ possible for Arthur to blush.**

"How long have you two been together?"

Eames and Arthur both choked on their eggnog. "I beg your pardon?" " _What?"_

Arthur's mother—Emma—gave them both a look. "You think I'm an idiot? Or maybe you thought that your mother went blind while you were gone?"

"Of course not, mom, but where is this _coming_ from?" Arthur said once he'd recovered enough.

"Just from looking at you two." Emma looked at her daughter. "I'm not wrong, am I?"

"Well…" Mina smiled a little. "They could just be in a bromance."

It was Emma's turn to look confused. "Dare I ask?"

"It's better that you don't." Arthur said. "And Eames and I are _not_ together." _(He doesn't know why he lies. It isn't as though both his mother and his sister aren't accepting of his sexuality. But he and Eames, as an unspoken rule, don't tell their relationship. They'd never even admitted it to Dom and Mal)_

"Oh really?"

Emma drawled it in such a way that she made it clear that she didn't believe him. Eames only saw the shift because he was sitting beside Arthur, but he saw the way his shoulders hunched a little, saw the way his ears pinked and Eames hid a smile in another sip of eggnog.

Mina cradled her head in one hand, elbow on the table and smiled in a lazy, arrogant way that didn't remind Eames in the least of Arthur. "It's a shame, mom. Looks like I'm your only hope for grandkids now."

Arthur glared at her, ears going distinctly red and muttered, "Traitor," even as Emma swatted at her daughter's arm and told her to get her elbow off the table.

It made Eames chuckle—he hadn't been home for a long time too, not really. Perhaps he should. And he'd invite Arthur along. It would only be fair, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames met Arthur James Reynolds once.

* * *

 

  
_"Yes we are [friends] and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often. I don't want to lose this happy space where I have found someone who is smart and easy and doesn't bother to check her diary when we arrange to meet."_   
_~Jeanette Winterson, **Written on the Body,** 1992_   


* * *

**Eames met Arthur James Reynolds once.**

The dream was sandy and scorching, something that Eames wouldn't have expected out of Arthur, who, the rare times that they went into his mind, seemed to prefer smooth, green countryside and sprawling villas. A strange mixture of classic old country and sleek modern times.

The difficult part was always finding Arthur within his mind. Arthur liked his paradoxes, liked his impossible architecture, despite keeping it within the visual designs of the past. It had been disconcerting, the first time, to see the Penrose steps mimicked on Mayan temples perched on mountaintops.

Eames spotted him as a soldier in worn fatigues, a bag over one shoulder. "Arthur!"

He turned at the name and he tilted his head curiously. "Do I know you?" the man asked.

As Eames neared, he noted the differences he'd only seen in photographs. Green eyes, military-short hair. He was younger than the other Arthur—Cameron—and Eames realized that this must be the way that he'd looked before he'd died. "Sorry, I was looking for someone else."

Arthur James Reynolds smiled immediately in understanding. "Lemme guess, my brother?"

"Yes, d'you happen to know where to find him?"

The older twin looked around. "Considering we're in the middle of a desert, more or less? I'd guess the nearest city."

"And where's that?"

"Where do you think I was walking from?"

Eames could have walked it by himself. After all, there could only be so many cities in that direction. But he felt the urge to speak with this projection, odd as it was. "Walk with me?"

He did an strange head tilt motion—the other Arthur never did that—and asked, "Who are you to him? Cameron, I mean."

"Going protective?"

The curl of Arthur James Reynolds' lips was slow and familiarly arrogant; Mina had had a similar smile. "What do you think?"

"I think it's your prerogative as the older one."

He barked a laugh and grinned, dimples and all. "I like the way you think. But you didn't answer my question."

"I'm his friend."

"Simple. To the point. I like it." Arthur James Reynolds and Cameron were more alike than simply in looks; they both appreciated a lack of beating around the bush. "C'mon then. My brother's probably having a fit because he can't find you in his own dream."

"You know about the dreaming then?" Eames asked as they set off.

Arthur James Reynolds blinked. "Of course I do. And before you ask, yes I know I'm dead in reality."

Eames glanced at the dog tags hanging around Arthur James Reynolds' neck; they were his own, the ones Eames knew that his Arthur never took off. Eames wondered if that served as a totem. After all, only Eames knew about Arthur James Reynolds' dog tags around his younger brother's neck and Arthur had wiped away all traces of any involvement with his family or anything personal really to the point where Arthur the Point Man was all that was left on the job market.

"Most projections wouldn't know that."

Arthur James Reynolds shrugged. "Call it one of those twin things."

Eames hadn't been in Iraq since the higher-ups decided he'd be a good guinea pig for the PASIV, but he could still recognize the city, still knew it and the very sight of it, even in a dream, made him slightly tense.

Arthur stood out in the crowd of his projections, still sharply dressed, still subtly dangerous, not fitting in with a place from his memories. Eames made to go towards him, but he soon found himself being whirled around, a fist clenched around his shirt, pressing his back to the wall.

_(Arthur James Reynolds has the same look on his face that Arthur does when Eames pushes him too far.)_

"This is probably unnecessary, but if you hurt my brother, I'll find a way to hurt you." The older twin _(The projection, Eames has to remind himself)_ had Arthur's ability to sound perfectly calm and casual while threatening someone. Except that Arthur James Reynolds had a suggestion of a smile on his lips, in the muscles of his face. It was unnerving.

_(It isn't until inception that Eames really realizes the full ramifications of what Arthur has done to his brother, keeping a part of him alive, locked down and away beneath layers of steel-willed control. The idea of memories keeping specific projections alive—and, as much as Eames loved Mal, he knows that part of his memory of her will always be tainted by the fear that she gave them all down there—is something that gives Eames pause more than once and it makes him study Arthur for any sign that his mind is making him tired. He doesn't find any)_

**Eames' family is, somehow, much more insane than the man himself is.**

Eames did fulfill that mental note to bring Arthur along the next time he went home.

"Sherallyn's sister, Anne, is getting married and she apparently wants us both there," Eames said.

"How'd she get ahold of you?"

"She didn't. Sheral did."

It told Arthur a lot about Eames that his ex-wife knew how to get in contact with him when notorious criminals and multi-billionaire companies couldn't.

"So you want me to?" Arthur asked for clarification.

"One good turn for another, isn't it? I met your family. Besides, you wouldn't let me go dateless, would you, darling?" Eames' lips curled into a smile and Arthur started running his mind through appointments and job offers.

"When is it?"

"Next week Thursday in Manchester. June the third."

Arthur thought about refusing. But Eames hadn't refused him when he'd relayed his sister's wish for him to come for Christmas. _(They're cowards, terrible cowards. Arthur's been running from his family since his brother died. He's seen the damage wrought to people in this business. More than one extractor is in a mental hospital, seeing things that exist only in dreams. He doesn't want to see people untouched by the dream-work. It hurts more than he cares to admit sometimes, but if Eames braved it, so can he)_

"…Sure. I'll go."

* * *

 

Sherallyn was the one to find them at the airport. Arthur only knows her when he sees her because when he found her name connected to Eames, he found a photo of her. But that photo had been older. This Sherallyn had light lines traced along her face and her blonde curls were drawn back with a tie so that her bangs were out of her face, but it still fell down her shoulders. She wore an old leather jacket—black and worn with age, slightly too big for her—and she wore short black boots. Her jeans were faded and there were—were those paint splatters?—along the thighs. Her file hadn't said she was any kind of artist—actually, she was partial owner of a restaurant business her parents had left her and her sister.

She smiled once she saw them and there was tiredness hooked onto the edges. "Allen."

Eames hugged her carefully, as though trying to make sure he didn't go one step too far. "Sheral, darling," _(Arthur isn't surprised by the pet name—he_ isn't _—because Eames had loved her once, probably still loved her in a way because Eames is the kind of person that hangs onto little things like that, but it's still strange to hear him call someone else 'darling')_ "This is Arthur, a coworker of mine."

When Sherallyn shook his hand, Arthur felt callouses that weren't from fighting, but from mundane weapons like pencils and kitchen knives. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Likewise." She said. "Shall we?"

* * *

 

The wedding took place late afternoon. In the few hours between their arrival and the actual event, few things went wrong, all things considered. They waited in the kitchen of some relative of Sherallyn's and had been volunteered into peeling potatoes.

They'd been there about an hour when Eames froze halfway through peeling and Arthur frowned at him. "What?" He followed the blue-gray eyes over his shoulder to the young woman who'd just come into the kitchen.

She looked about fifteen, sixteen, dark blonde hair pinned up in one of those twists that held up only because of some feminine magic. She was a bridesmaid, if the dress was anything to go by. Lavender with ruffles going diagonally across the bodice, which was beaded at the hem. The dress was sleeveless, and brushed her calves. She laughed at something another bridesmaid was saying and Arthur knew the smile that went with the sound. He'd seen the photograph only once, but he couldn't forget the little girl who had Eames' eyes.

The little girl who was very much not little anymore.

She turned at something someone else said and Arthur saw the moment that the walls came up behind her eyes _(Gray eyes, gray and blue like a stormy sky)_. "Dad."

Eames smiled and there was a quality to it that Arthur hadn't seen before, something softer. "Hey, Amara. You look…beautiful."

Amara ducked her head, tucking a loose lock of hair behind one ear. It was a shy movement, but when she looked back up, her eyes were hard. "What're you doing here?"

"Your aunt invited me." Eames didn't look away from his daughter, as though committing her to memory.

"…Oh. Mom didn't mention that."

Before Eames could reply, someone shouted for Amara to get her butt upstairs so they could finish getting her ready. Amara let out a breath and Arthur could see her counting backwards from ten, which made him hide a smile in the tea that he'd been steadily drinking for the better part of an hour.

"Not supposed to be down here?" Arthur asked because he remembered, distantly, Mira pulling the same thing before getting ready for parties. Sneaking away so that she could get a break.

"Not technically." Amara twisted and snatched a biscuit from the bowl on the counter—an impressive feat as Arthur had watched other people try to do the same thing and had gotten their hands whacked with a wooden spoon by Sheral's great aunt Edna for it. "But I was hungry and there's no way I can stand through a wedding without food."

A young man came downstairs, pale and thin with a mop of dark hair that, clearly, someone had been trying, and failing, to tame. "Amara, my sister's gonna throw a fit if you don't get upstairs." The man grinned in a terribly evil fashion. "And besides, don't you want to look pretty for that gentleman caller of yours?"

" _Aaron!_ " Amara chased after him and they could hear laughter echoing down the halls.

"Eames," Arthur said quietly. The older man had gone quiet and he looked too still.

It took a heartbeat too long for Eames to respond. "Yes, darling?"

"I can come up with an excuse if you'd rather not be here."

Eames didn't do what Arthur had done when the older man had offered the same thing when visiting Arthur's family in Vermont. He didn't automatically think 'no'; Arthur saw him turn it over in his mind.

"…No. Anne wanted me to be here."

They both fell silent after that.

* * *

 

The wedding was simple. Anne was in a white dress whose folds whispered along the ground and her hair was a paler shade than her sister's. Sherallyn was the maid of honor, her dress mint green and flared out from her hips. When Anne saw Eames—Allen—she grinned and hugged him tightly. Eames smiled and returned the embrace warmly.

"I wasn't sure you were going to come. I know I got the message to Sheral a bit late."

"How could I miss this? You actually managed to keep ahold of someone long enough for them to propose. I thought Sheral was playing some elaborate joke when she called."

Anne pushed him playfully before smiling at Arthur. "Allen, you haven't introduced us."

"Ah, this is a friend and coworker of mine, Arthur."

Arthur went to shake her hand, but Anne bypassed his hand and hugged him lightly instead. "It's very nice to meet you," she said. "Thank you for coming." She glanced behind her and her new husband was beckoning to her about family photos at the altar. "Sorry, must go. I'll see if I can't talk to you two more later."

"She missed you an awful lot," Arthur said offhandedly.

"I knew her before I knew Sheral. She worked with me."

"So you were responsible enough for a normal job at some point."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence, darling. Always appreciated."

* * *

 

"…Arthur, right?"

He turned to see Anne beside him in the line for the buffet. "Yes. Anne, isn't it?" _(He has a memory for names and had committed hers to memory the moment he'd heard it. But he's been blending into people for long enough that he never reveals details like that)_

"Yeah. Listen, this is going to sound very forward of me—Sheral always says that I've got the subtlety of a shotgun—but, um, you and Allen…are you simply friends?"

Arthur blinked at her. It had become habit by now, to not mention their relationship in public. "Yeah. We met at work."

"How long have you been working together?"

Arthur had to do a mental count. "Nearly five years."

"Wow. I can't believe he's stayed at once job for so long. Allen's never been the type to sit still, y'know. Likes to always be doing something."

Arthur nodded as he put some spaghetti on his plate.

"…You're good for 'im."

Arthur looked at her. "What?"

"You. You're good for him," Anne repeated. "I was…rather worried about inviting him. I love Allen, he's a good friend of mine, always has been, but…I know that he and Sheral aren't completely good with each other. It's why I took so long in asking Sheral to ask him. I didn't think he'd come and, if he did, I was sure that this whole thing would hurt him more than it helped. But he's been smiling—and I know he's not completely okay—but he seems to be doing alright. I think that's a good bit because of you."

"…His daughter…does she hate him?"

"No. Perhaps a little, but she's loved him. Always. The issue is, now that she's older, she realizes what she lost and—really, she was so little—what she never really had. She doesn't know how to talk to him now."

"…She reminds me of him."

Anne smiled. "Caught that, did you? Drives Sheral up the wall sometimes."

" _He_ drives me up the wall sometimes," Arthur muttered.

"That doesn't surprise me," she laughed. "You seem like the type he likes to antagonize."

Arthur was at the end of the buffet line. He picked up his plate and said, "So glad to know that he doesn't do that to everyone." _(In truth, Eames does antagonize everyone, but there are certain people he goes to certain lengths to do it.)_

"Thank you, Arthur. For coming to the wedding. And for putting up with him. I know it's not an easy thing to do."

"Not a problem. Oh, and congratulations."

Arthur returned to the table that he and Eames had claimed, in a corner and within easy distance to the bar and fairly close to the exit if they wanted to slip out. There were two glasses of wine on the table, one emptier than the other.

"Thought you'd like some," Eames said when he caught Arthur's expression.

"Thanks." Arthur sat to eat—he'd been strangely hungry today. Usually, travelling made him less hungry—and wasn't surprised when Eames stole a meatball. "Why don't you get your own plate?"

"Are you against sharing, darling?"

"Are you really playing the question game with me?"

"What's the matter—not a fan of it?" Eames smirked at him and Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Not when I'm hungry."

Eames' eyes were drawn to the dance floor. Arthur followed his gaze and saw Amara and that thin boy—Aaron, was it?—dancing in that familiar, easy way of family.

"…She's beautiful. Your daughter." _Pretty name for a pretty girl._

"…You heard the kid earlier. She has a boyfriend, Arthur. And I'm missing it." Eames' hands were tight on the wineglass. "What if, next time, it'll be her wedding I hear about? I don't know anything about her life now."

Arthur was sure that that wasn't Eames' first or even second glass of wine and that was in addition to the numerous obligatory glasses of champagne for the seemingly endless toasts. Eames gave out information voluntarily about as often as Arthur did.

Arthur didn't know what to say to that and told him so. After all, he'd never planned to make a family of his own. Even now, having recently turned twenty-five, he still wasn't thinking of it. He was no Dom Cobb who, despite having the cleverness of a thief, had homespun Montana values and Mal had even told them that they were thinking of trying for children.

_"Children?" Eames laughed as he chopped the vegetables for Mal's beef stew. "God above, I don't want to imagine what hellions you would bring into the world, Cat."_

_"They can't be much worse than any of yours." Arthur quipped, keeping well away from the cooking area by Mal Law. Because, and this was quoted, 'He might be annoyingly good at all other aspects in life, but cooking anything more complicated than coffee and sandwiches well exceeded his reach'._

_"Careful, darling, someone might begin to believe that you get snippy when you're hungry."_

Arthur didn't even suggest that Eames quit dreamwork—he knew from his own investigations that, despite his gambling problem, Eames still had more than enough to live off of comfortably—because the person Sherallyn had married, Allen Reed from London, existed now in memory. Eames was a Forger. It was more than a profession.

Arthur didn't suggest it and Eames didn't say anything. And if Eames kept stealing his food—once a thief, always a thief, the smirk said—Arthur didn't poke his hand away with his fork. He simply sipped at his wine and watched the people.

**Eames on a motorcycle is as terrifying in real life as it is in theory.**

"This is your idea of a getaway car?" Arthur asked, staring at Eames sitting on his stolen motorcycle. "Do you even know how to drive that thing?"

Eames rolled his eyes. "Save the condescension for later, darling. Unless you _enjoy_ being shot at?"

Arthur straddled the bike and wrapped his arms around Eames' waist. Getting shot at lost its excitement value after the first few times. Eames kicked the bike into gear and they roared down the street.

Eames was actually a fairly decent driver—and that was saying something when he tended to drive on the wrong side of the road even in England—and he wove in and out of traffic before having to make a sharp turn which had their legs all too close to the ground for a heartbeat before he straightened the bike back out.

The decent driving only lasted so long though and the bullets ricocheting around them certainly weren't helping. Three avenues over and Eames nearly got them hit by two mac trucks and a Smart Car, not that Arthur was particularly concerned about the latter. They'd probably come out on top in that one.

"Hang a left!" Arthur had to shout to be heard. He and Mal had spent enough time in Paris' less savory areas that he actually knew this area rather well. "We can lose them in the next two streets."

Eames didn't question him. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, searching for their pursuers, but couldn't find any sight of them.

"We need to get to a better place where we can blend in!"

"Darling, I don't know how to tell you this, but an Englishman and an American aren't exactly going to blend in in the center of Paris!"

"We will in the touristy part!"

Eames turned and Arthur hung on tighter; with this kind of driving, it was a good idea.

* * *

They managed to hide themselves in the crowd near the Louvre. The Eiffel Tower had a bigger crowd, but it only had so many ways in and out.

"They'll be watching the airport," Arthur said, sitting on a bench in one of the museum's many long corridors.

"We could slip on a train. Head out somewhere else. I hear Germany's nice this time of year."

"So long as I don't have to endure more of your so called 'driving'."

Eames tilted a smile at him. "You're alive, aren't you?"

"Barely. That second truck was _this close_ to me." Arthur demonstrated by holding his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart.

"Ah yes, wouldn't want to scrape up that lovely face of yours."

"Did you ever even get a proper driver's license?"

" _Technically_ …no. We didn't have money for that," Eames hesitated for a moment. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed it. "And my father taught me early on how to steal a car. Why do something legally when illegally is so much easier?"

"That's your motto in life, isn't it?" Arthur glanced towards the exit of the Louvre. "There's a group big enough that we can slip out with them."

"Can you bear my driving until the train station?"

"No. They'll be looking for a motorcycle now. There's a train station about fifteen minutes from here. We can walk there and figure out the rest as we go."

"No contingency plan from you? I'm shocked."

"I'd appreciate it if you saved the condescension until after we're out of France."

Eames chuckled. "Sure, darling."

**Eames is good at breakfast.**

Arthur woke to quiet noises in his apartment and the smell of cinnamon and coffee. It took him a moment to remember why. He frowned and rolled onto his back so that he could look at his alarm clock. The digits read 6:47 AM. It wasn't late by most of the world's standards, but Arthur had long years of practice of rising with the sun.

He swung his legs out of bed and pushed himself to his feet. He half-shuffled his way to his kitchen—or rather, Eames' kitchen because he was really the only person who ever used it for more than making sandwiches or simple pasta. If Arthur was in the mood, he'd even been known to make himself a steak, but those were rare times—and found the source of the cinnamon smell.

Eames stood at the stove, poking at something in a frying pan with a spatula, the radio playing jazz quietly. He turned when he noticed Arthur standing in the doorway, hair still untidy and clothes wrinkled from sleep. It was one of his favorite sights.

"Morning, darling."

"Eames, what're you making?" Arthur went to peer around Eames' shoulder. "Is that French toast?"

"I had a craving for something sweet this morning." It wasn't uncommon for Eames to stay for anywhere between a night or two weeks in Arthur's apartment. On the whole, there were worse roommates. He tended to leave empty glasses on tables, but he remembered to use the coasters and he had a bad habit of falling asleep while reading, the books lying spine up and open on his stomach. But he insisted on making breakfast for however long he stayed. _"It's only right seeing as how you're letting me stay."_

"Clearly." Arthur poured himself a mug of coffee that Eames had left simmering in the pot.

"You don't need to look so surprised that I can cook every time we do this, you know."

"Who taught you to cook?" Arthur leaned against the counter, sipping at his coffee as he waited for the answer or the lack thereof.

"…My mum. Classic housewife, but she loved it."

Arthur couldn't think of what to say to that, so he kept quiet and just watched Eames flip the toast.

They ate leaning against the counter, listening to the quiet jazz and passing the orange juice back and forth. Eames read half the paper while Arthur read the other. They would read interesting headlines out to one another and Eames would make disparaging comments on many of the stories.

Eames finished eating first. After placing his plate and glass in the sink and getting his own cup of coffee, he leaned back on the counter, flipping through the thin paper. It didn't hold his attention for long—Dyslexia made newspapers twice as daunting—and he took to watching Arthur instead. Arthur seemed not to notice, as he tended not to notice much that wasn't a threat when he read.

Unconsciously, his hand reached out and tucked a loose curl back behind Arthur's ear. His hair was getting long again; he'd likely cut it soon. Arthur glanced up at the touch, shoulders tensing automatically before he registered who was beside him.

Eames half-expected him to say something about it, but instead all he said was, "You make a mean French toast."

Eames laughed, unable to help it. "I'm honored. My cooking has earned the Arthur Stamp of Approval."

"Don't let it go to your head."

The forger hid a smile in his coffee. "Of course not, darling."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has needed glasses since the third grade.

  
_"The only people for me are the mad one, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn o r say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the bloue center-light pop, and everyone goes ahh..."  
_ _-Kerouac **(On the Road)**_   


* * *

**Arthur is an Elvis fan.**

The records were neatly shelved beside the record player. Eames had been a little surprised to see them, but somehow, they seemed to fit with the apartment. He saw them, really saw them, for the first time years after Arthur had become comfortable enough to have Eames wandering through his apartment on his own.

The records weren't dusty and their covers were soft-edged from many handlings, particularly the Elvis Presley ones. Eames set one of the records on the player and laid the needle down.

_…You know I can be found, sittin' home all alone  
_ _If you can't come around, at least please telephone  
_ _Don't be cruel to a heart that's true…_

"Eames?" The front door unlocked (Eames may or may not have broken into the apartment)and Arthur slipped through, a bag of groceries in one arm, keys in that hand and, while Eames couldn't see the other hand, he was willing to bet that there was a weapon of some sort in it.

"I didn't know you liked Elvis, darling."

"You never asked." As Arthur walked in, Eames found that he was right. There was a derringer in his other hand, one that he probably kept on his person at all times, even off the job. Arthur set the groceries and keys down on the dining table, stuffing the derringer in the waistband at the small of his back. He ran a hand through his hair. "I might as well get you a key if you're going to keep breaking in. Why is that, by the way?"

"Well, you're not home when I come to call. I have to get in somehow."

"That wouldn't be a problem if you actually called like normal people do before coming over." Arthur rolled up the sleeves of the sweater that Mal had gotten him for Christmas; it was soft and black.

 _…Let's walk up to the preacher and let us say, "I do"_  
Then you'll know you'll have me, and I'll know that I'll have you   
Don't be cruel to a heart that's true   
I don't want no other love, baby, it's just you I'm thinkin' of…

"You don't seem the type to have records." Eames crossed the room, taking out groceries and beginning to put them away. Arthur didn't protest. Eames was the one who actually used the kitchen for its intended purposes anyway.

"…They were my father's. Tea or coffee?" Arthur stood poised with his hand on the small cup he used to measure out the coffee beans. He could stand the store bought stuff, but he preferred making his own.

"Coffee, please."

_…Lord Almighty,  
_ _I feel my temperature rising  
_ _Higher and higher  
_ _It's burning through to my soul…_

"Have you ever been to Graceland, darling?"

"Once. When we were…about nine, I think. Maybe ten." Arthur slipped on the pronouns around Eames now. Not too long ago, he would still have used the singular, so accustomed was he to pretending that Arthur the Point Man was someone without a family and someone who was certainly without a brother. "Why?"

"I'm currently in between jobs and in want of something to see. I've heard good things about it."

"What, no good sights in Mombasa?"

"Currently, my standing with Cobol is not as nice as I would prefer."

"The Pullman job?"

Eames wasn't surprised he'd heard about it. "Mm. You're a bad influence, darling. You set too high a standard for my point men."

Arthur poured the fresh coffee into a mug before sliding the mug across the counter in Eames' direction. "That'll teach you not to work with subpar teams."

"Your concern is touching, truly."

"Somehow, I think that you would have called if it had been an actual emergency."

"Perhaps."

_…'Cause your kisses lift me higher  
_ _Like a sweet song of a choir  
_ _You light my morning sky  
_ _With burning love…_

"Oh, Dom asked me to ask you if you were dropping by for Thanksgiving."

"I wouldn't dare miss it. Mal's mother makes the best pecan pie I've ever tasted."

Arthur chuckled, the sound warm and seeping into the kitchen, into the wood of the cabinets and the cool tile. "You make a good point, Mr. Eames."

"I tend to. You simply refuse to accept them for what they are."

"Is that what you tell yourself so that you can sleep easy?"

"Darling, if I was going to think of you before I went to bed, I seriously doubt it would be to ease my sleep."

Arthur rolled his eyes; Eames remembered a time when the younger man's cheeks and ears would have pinked. "If you're at the point of thinking of me, then I think you need to hire yourself an escort."

Eames' lips curled in a smirk. "What makes you think I need to pay for my company?"

"Because I like to think well enough of humanity that they have the good sense not to sleep with anyone who would wear that shirt without some kind of compensation."

Eames looked down at the offending article of clothing. It wasn't so bad, but then, Arthur had a long-standing grudge against paisley. "You've got to let that go."

"I stand by my opinion that paisley belongs on women's scarves or bandanas. That's as far as I'll go."

"I'm going to get you a shirt like this for Christmas. I swear I will. You need to expand your horizons."

"Not that far. There be dragons over there."

**Arthur tastes like coffee and spring rain.**

Arthur was generally the first one awake. Old habits died hard and some habits never died at all. Sometimes, Eames would wake with the shifting of the bed or the lack of warmth and watch Arthur slip about the room, silent as a shadow, or he would listen to the sounds of the coffee maker and the microwave, of the fridge opening and closing.

Sometimes, when Eames would feel Arthur shift awake—which felt very differently from shifting in his sleep—he'd pull him closer, a silent warning to not even think about getting out of bed so early. Half the time, Arthur would roll his eyes and get out of bed anyway—"I can't stay in bed all day like _some_ people, Eames."—and the other half, he would accept it and slowly drift back to sleep.

And sometimes, after Arthur was already dressed for his day—the man wasn't a big believer in the ideal of staying in pajamas all day, though it happened once in a blue moon—he would sit on the edge of Eames' side of the bed and slip a hand up Eames' chest to feather across his throat and jawline before kissing Eames softly.

It never ceased to wake him up and tug the younger man closer so that he was half-sprawled on the bed, after which Arthur would murmur, "Good morning." against his lips.

**Arthur has needed glasses since the third grade.**

The first time he ever noticed that Arthur had less than perfect eyesight had been very early into their relationship. They'd shared quarters then, everyone in the dreamsharing program had. Arthur had been reading one night; Eames couldn't remember the title of the book for the life of him because he'd been focused on observing the youngest member of their team. His brow was wrinkled just a little in between his eyes as he read, something which Eames noted as a sign of declining eyesight at the time, but over the years, it had faded away as an errant detail.

It was once, when he couldn't sleep during a job, that he came to the warehouse because he needed something to get out of his own mind _(Which turns out rather ironic because he'd been intending to go into his own mind to practice the forge)_. He hadn't been surprised to see Arthur burning the midnight oil, but it had been the first time that he'd seen Arthur dressed less than professionally since just after his army days.

His suit jacket had been hooked around the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up his forearms, tie loose and the buttons undone on his vest. His hair had been slightly disheveled because he had a habit of running his fingers through it. His shoes were off, though his socks weren't, and his feet were on his desk as he read through the information on his laptop. His face seemed completely transformed however, because of the glasses perched on his nose. They were thin and black wire-frame and he seemed almost to not notice them, the way that people who had been wearing glasses for a long time didn't notice them.

Eames thought that they rather suited him.

"I didn't know you wore glasses." Eames said, coming to lean his hips on Arthur's desk.

Arthur glanced up from the laptop before returning to his reading. "I prefer contacts, but they were giving me a headache tonight."

Eames tilted his head in observation. "They suit you. Very 'librarian'."

"Did you come here for something specific, Mr. Eames?"

"Only the pleasure of your company, darling."

"You're a bad liar." Only Arthur could say that and mean it, but then, Eames didn't like lying to him. He wouldn't ever tell him the whole truth, of course, but the things he said were rarely full blown lies. Of course, Arthur wouldn't believe him if he told him that.

"I do need you to look over O'Caliggen to make sure I've got him right."

Arthur tapped a few keys before closing the laptop and getting to his feet, no more questions asked. He took off his glasses and folded them, placing them in an inside pocket of the jacket on his chair. "Shall we, then?"

**Arthur's projections are the most painful to die from.**

It wasn't often that Arthur allowed Eames in his dreams. Allowed anyone really. And his mind was one to be careful in because sometimes, if he wasn't completely focused, his mind would shift the landscape into impossible shapes without warning. It usually ended in a fall to the death.

Arthur James Reynolds didn't often show up. Sometimes, Eames would catch him out of the corner of his eye, or watching as he fell from a sudden change in landscape, but he never approached him and he hadn't spoken with Arthur's twin since that first time.

But Arthur did. Eames saw it once, slipping into Arthur's dream ten minutes after finding Arthur in the basement of the old house that they were using, needle in his arm and PASIV operating beside him. Arthur with his twin, sitting on a rooftop in a city made entirely of sparkling glass that reflected reflections of each other out into infinity, even when each pane showed a different place.

Seeing them together now, side by side, was a strange experience. Because Arthur James Reynolds was still at the age he'd died at, all those years ago. Still nineteen, perhaps twenty, all youthful smiles and light. Arthur was, at least, six years older than his twin now _(He'll never admit it, but that's the part that hurts the most because Arthur was always the older one with Cameron at his heels, a faithful shadow. It feels wrong to be the older twin)_

There were lines—faint ones that Eames only knew were there because he'd traced them many times himself—along Arthur's forehead and at the corners of his mouth and there was a darkness in his eyes that wasn't in Arthur James Reynolds' green ones. The similarities were all still there; the dimple smiles, the planes of the face, the angle of the nose—though Arthur's was just slightly off from having been broken too often.

Arthur was smiling as he spoke to his twin. The smile wasn't the one Eames knew. This one was sadder, dimples less pronounced and it reached his eyes in a terrible kind of way.

From the corner of his eye, Eames caught movement in one of the sparkling panes and suddenly, Arthur James Reynolds was looking at him with emerald eyes sparking in anger and there were other, hundreds of people suddenly on this rooftop and Arthur was whirling around and Eames couldn't decide if Arthur looked angry or if he looked protective.

People held him back, people with nondescript faces and eyes and voices and Arthur James Reynolds was the one to reach him first, even as someone grabbed Arthur to stop him from interfering.

Eames died with Arthur's face _(The differences are faint, but when one is dying, details matter little)_ above him twisted in anger and a switchblade twisting slowly in his chest because no one liked to feel someone else poking around in their mind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is good at distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is Sick by Shel Silverstein.  
> And thanks to esking on ff.net for the crouton idea.

* * *

  
_The language of friendship is not words but meanings.  
_ _~Henry David Thoreau_  


* * *

**Eames isn't a nap-taker.**

Arthur had grown up with his mother coming home from a teaching job every afternoon, exhausted and hungry and still with three children to feed. She'd make a quick dinner most nights—tuna fish sandwiches, usually, though sometimes it was ham and cheese. She wondered aloud more than once why three intelligent kids couldn't make their own sandwiches and they all had given her innocent smiles; "It doesn't taste as good when _we_ make it."—and take a seat on the couch with a movie on for background noise as she graded papers. After she was done grading, she'd want to finish the movie, but she would fall asleep halfway through what was left of the movie.

Mina liked naps too, though hers were usually much more spontaneous. Sometimes, if there was an accident on the road that made the bus ride home longer or if she'd had a particularly bad day, she'd lean her head on Cameron or Arthur's shoulder and sleep to the bumping and shaking of a school bus.

Arthur himself took naps sometimes—rarely, but they happened. Usually when his contacts were bothering him and he'd been working for a few days straight. Those times, he'd slouch a little and tell himself that he would just rest his eyes. He would always wake up about an hour later, blinking as the afternoon sunlight threatened to blind him.

To find out that Eames didn't like naps, it was a bit strange. They were something natural in Arthur's life.

But sometimes, when Arthur would be working on their bed on one of those long afternoons, in flannel pajama pants and a worn T-shirt, Eames would flop down beside him. Originally, there would have been a book in hand at some point, but the book would be forgotten in lieu of laying his head near Arthur's thigh and watching the information flash across the screen or read the sheets inside the manila folders. Often, one of Arthur's hands would find their way to Eames' hair and absently run his hands through it, scratching lightly at the scalp.

That usually made Eames drowsy, but—and he claimed this stubbornly—he wouldn't nap.

**Eames has a mother-hen complex.**

When Arthur heard the door to his apartment open and close quietly, he groaned and half-hoped someone was here to kill him. He'd been stuck in bed with headaches, a throat that hurt to make sounds and a nose that couldn't decide if it wanted to be runny or stuffy. He'd tried to go for a walk—fresh air tended to help him when he was sick—but he'd gotten dizzy as soon as he'd tried to stand up.

"Arthur?"

The point man huffed a little and buried his head deeper into his pillow, tugging the comforter up his shoulder.

His bedroom door opened with a gentle creak. "Arthur?"

"Eames…go 'way."

Eames came around the bed to look at him. "Dom said you were sick, but you look bloody awful."

"Good observation."

Eames held up a plastic shopping bag. "I brought soup and some tea. And crackers."

"Not hungry."

"This is for when you _are_ hungry. Or for when you feel like taking these," Eames rattled a bottle of Nyquil. "Since a smart man like you knows you shouldn't take medicine on an empty stomach."

Arthur leveled a glare at him. Or, the closest thing he could muster at the moment, anyway.

"That's not nearly as frightening as your usual, darling."

Arthur wondered if he closed his eyes and counted to fifty, if Eames would still be there. No harm in trying, he supposed. _(Forty-five…forty-six….forty-seven…forty-eight…for ty-nine…fifty…)_ Arthur opened his eyes. Eames was gone.

Maybe there was such a thing as God.

He felt the bed sink on the other side of him and decided that, if there was a God, that He hated him.

"Can't sleep?"

"Been trying. On and off."

"'m sorry." And Eames actually sounded sincere. There was a rustle of paper. Arthur turned onto his back, wincing at the way he felt his head swim.

"Wha's that?"

"A personal favorite of mine. Would you like to hear it?"

"Can I stop you?"

"No."

"Then by all means."

 _"'I cannot go to school today,'_ _Said little Peggy Ann McKay,"_ Eames began. _"'I have the measles and the mumps,_ _A gash, a rash and purple bumps._ _My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,_ _I'm going blind in my right eye._ _My tonsils are as big as rocks,_ _I've counted sixteen chicken pox_ _And there's one more—that's seventeen,_ _And don't you think my face looks green?"_

Arthur felt like laughing, but he was too tired to actually do it. He hadn't heard anything like this since grade school. And never the way Eames read it, with a cadence and passion that only accented how hard he must have worked to learn this poem with his dyslexia.

_"'My leg is cut—my eyes are blue-_ _It might be instamatic flu._ _I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,_ _I'm sure that my left leg is broke-_ _My hip hurts when I move my chin,_ _My belly button's caving in,_ _My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,_ _My 'pendix pains each time it rains._ _My nose is cold, my toes are numb._ _I have a sliver in my thumb._ _My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,_ _I hardly whisper when I speak._ _My tongue is filling up my mouth,_ _I think my hair is falling out._ _My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,_ _My temperature is one-o-eight._ _My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,_ _There is a hole inside my ear._ _I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?_ _What's that? What's that you say?_ _You say today is...Saturday?_ _G'bye, I'm going out to play!'"_

"Who is that from?" Arthur asked.

"Shel Silverstein." Eames hesitated. "…I used to read it to my daughter. When she was sick."

Arthur smiled. _(Sometimes, he sees Eames as two very separate people. Eames the Father and Eames as he's always known him)_ "You learned it for her?"

"Yeah. She could read better than I did when I left, so she would always be asking if I would listen to her read this."

"…Thanks. For taking the time to read it to me. I haven't read any of his poems since…Before."

Before his brother died, Before they joined the Marines, Before the graduated high school, Before they ever got into a fight, Before puberty hit, Before their Dad got caught. Before.

"Now you've heard one After."

Arthur snorted. "Out of wisdom for the day, Mr. Eames?"

"Are you mocking me, Mr. Reynolds? Because I can leave and take the food and the Nyquil with me."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"It's the only way to get you to listen, stubborn ass that you are." Eames got up from the bed. "All you need to get better is my homemade secret recipe."

"You mean Campbell's?"

"No need for condescension. Otherwise you'll just have the crackers."

"'S my apartment," Arthur said, vaguely grumpy as being sick tended to make him.

"I'm glad you think so."

**Flowers remind Eames of funerals.**

The scent was cloying and heavy and it _wouldn't go away_. There were roses and lilies—so many lilies—and pansies and bluebells and forget-me-nots. But the lilies were the strongest, the roses—already dying, their sweet scent poisoned—right behind them.

He'd been sitting on the steps in front of the funeral home for a while, two cigarettes spent at his feet, another half of one perched between his lips. Arthur took a seat beside him.

Eames glanced sideways. "Still here, darling?" He sounded tired, life-tired. "Thought you would've gotten on a plane to Santiago by now."

Arthur shook his head. A curl had gotten loose in the summer sun and he swept it back with an absent hand. "…It doesn't feel like she's gone yet, does it?" He hadn't had his cry yet. The crying came when the impact of what had happened hit. He knew it would come. He's in no rush.

 _(The impact and the crying come right away when Arthur James Reynolds dies. He remembers other soldiers dragging him away from his brother's half-gone body and he remembers trying desperately to break their grip—"That's my_ brother _! Don't you understand? I need to stay with him!"—because they are neverapart. He remembers sobbing as they load him in the helicopter, strapped into the seat and clinging to himself because his heart's just been ripped out. He cries for days, in his cot, in the shower. The day he stops crying is the day that a graying man comes in and asks him if he wants to learn dreamwork. He doesn't think about his answer—"Yes."—because he still sees Arthur James Reynolds in his dreams and is it possible that he can see him again? When they ask him his first name—all that they've got is his rank and his last name—he says the first thing that comes to his mind. Arthur)_

"D'you know that I keep half-expecting her to show up and look at us and ask us what the hell we're sitting about and moping for," Arthur said. He'd been off cigarettes for seven months now, but the smell of smoke on Eames and from his cigarette were comforting.

"And to get rid of those damn flowers," Eames muttered, bitterness and sorrow dragging down his words. "Mal wouldn't've known what to do with 'em all."

"Yeah." Arthur's smile was weak and somewhat forced. "She'd be so proud of you for finding a suit."

"Heh. Probably have to burn this damn thing now, elsewise I'll be smelling those flowers forever."

"Mm."

They sat in silence long enough for Eames to light up again and for the shadows to have lengthened. Finally, Arthur got to his feet. "…See you, Eames."

"Right. Take care of yourself." Because God knew that Arthur would be so intent on taking care of Dom that he might not remember that human beings needed to eat to survive.

**Eames is good at distraction.**

He'd been quiet recently. And he only came back to the warehouse for meetings with the whole team. Otherwise, he'd been out 'researching the mark', which he might very well have been doing, but Arthur doubted that that was all there was to it. There were the beginnings of dark circles beneath his eyes, which was a real cause for worry because Arthur had never known Eames to lose sleep over anything.

"Join me for lunch?" Arthur asked, managing to catch Eames before he was out the door after another meeting. He didn't linger, these days.

Eames looked back at him, blinking as though the words didn't register right away. A smile managed its way onto his face _(The smile is wrong, not a real one. It's one that's tacked onto something as an afterthought because the owner thought they needed it)_. "Sure, darling."

The closest place to eat was a diner and it really wasn't to Arthur's taste—greasy food and him didn't get along. Eames had teased him for it more than once; weren't Americans born with grease-ready stomachs?—but it was food and at this point in this job, he was beyond the point of really caring.

Arthur smiled at the waitress who was almost shamelessly flirting with the both of them _(Another sign that something's wrong—Eames not reacting with his usual charm. He and women usually get along, for reasons Arthur can't understand)_ and ordered a club sandwich.

Eames ordered nothing more than a Caesar salad—another check on the list of Things Very Wrong. Eames was a man with an appetite.

After the waitress brought their drinks—Coke because Arthur needed the caffeine and water—Arthur leaned forward on his forearms after taking a sip. "Starting a new diet, Eames?"

Gray eyes flicked up to him. "You know I have to work to keep up this wonderful figure of mine, Arthur. Not all of us can be born with genetics that let us eat all the food we want and not gain a single kilo."

The comment should have come with a smirk. It didn't and that bothered Arthur more than he was willing to admit.

"Are you sick?"

"Concerned for me, darling?"

"Frankly? Yes. You haven't been yourself." Arthur had been planning on subtly getting the answer out of Eames, but that wasn't his style. And Eames knew all those sorts of tricks too well to be fooled.

"How kind of you to notice."

The waitress returned with their food and they thank her politely. Eames began to methodically search his salad for the croutons, poking past the lettuce to uncover them even as Arthur began to spread mayonnaise on his bread.

"You didn't answer my question," Arthur reminded him.

"Very astute of you."

Arthur simply took a bite of his sandwich—it was good enough, though the bread was burnt and the bacon was little squares of char—and didn't question further. Just looked at Eames, letting his question hang between them.

"Darling, you're thinking too loud," Eames said, still poking through the salad. He'd quarantined off the croutons on a napkin.

Arthur blinked at him. "Eames, what're you doing?"

The forger looked up at him. "Separating the lettuce from the croutons."

"Better question—why?"

"Because otherwise, the croutons get soggy and after that, they might as well have breaded the lettuce for all the crunch factor there is."

"You do realize that the entire point of a Caesar salad is to eat the lettuce _with_ the croutons?"

"Don't be so eager as to fall for the social norms, darling," Eames said, gesturing quickly at the point man with his fork before returning to double-check the salad.

"Don't use your utensils to make a point. Didn't anyone ever teach you table manners?"

"Didn't anyone ever teach you?" Arthur frowned at him. "Elbows aren't allowed on the table. Everyone knows that one."

Arthur returned to his sandwich. He attempted to steal one of the croutons, but all he got was a warning tap on the hand. Eames tilted a smile at him. "Can't steal from a thief. You should know better."

Arthur just rolled his eyes.

It wasn't until after they'd all gone back to the warehouse and he'd begun working with the architect on the levels and Eames had left to study the mark more that he realized that Eames had never actually answered the question at all.


	9. Chapter 9

  
_Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive._   
_~Anäis Nin_   


* * *

**Arthur prefers _Star Wars_.**

Eames was leaning against Arthur's dining table. He'd managed to convince the younger man to have a day on the town with him and when Arthur—after deciding to go and saying he had to go shower and why was Eames even awake this early?—Eames called after him, "Street casual, darling. Those suits of yours are making you too uptight."

The very thought of seeing Arthur in street clothes was odd. There'd been a time when it wouldn't have been odd at all, when Arthur preferred jeans to slacks and when he didn't dress so put-together. But things had been changing.

Eames arched an eyebrow as Arthur stepped out, shoes and socks in hand. "What is that shirt?"

"Aren't I the one that's supposed to say that to you? And it's a T-shirt, Eames. I thought that you, of all people, would recognize one since you're always telling me to loosen up."

"No, no, what's on it?"

Arthur glanced down. "What?"

"You've got a space station on your shirt." A half-built one with words beneath it that read 'I had friends on the Death Star'.

"Yeah. You said you'd seen the _Star Wars_ movies."

"I have. I didn't think you were such a big fan of it."

Arthur shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." Eames said honestly. He'd seen many sides to Arthur. He'd seen the Point Man, he'd seen the left-overs of Cameron Reynolds, he'd seen the kind godfather, the brother, the loyal friend, the good soldier, the ruthless survivor. But he'd never seen this one, the one that Eames believed was still a shard of Cameron, but it had been smoothed and worn away to the point where it was just Arthur.

Just Arthur was a bit of a nerd, Eames decided, but then, he was at the very same time so much more than that.

**Arthur picked up a few skills from Eames.**

"You're telling me that you've never seen _Aladdin_?" Arthur said, taking a sip of champagne. New Year's Eve at Dom and Mal's house was more of an affair than he'd ever had growing up, but then, they had actual relatives. His mother had been an only child and his father…well. It had just been the four of them, perhaps a neighbor or two, every New Year's.

"You seem shocked."

"That's because that movie," Arthur tilted his glass at the TV screen, Phillipa and James transfixed on what was going on. "Was a staple of my childhood. And besides, I think you'd like the idea."

"How so?"

"You like _Great Gatsby_ , right? Same principle; rags to riches. Street rat falls in love with princess, finds a genie to make him a prince, princess falls for him, but finds out the truth. The vizier wants to be sultan, so he tried to kill the thief. Genie saves the thief. Princess and prince are set to be married. Vizier steals the genie and becomes sultan, the most powerful sorcerer and finally, an actual genie. Thief fights genie, captures him in a lamp. Happily ever after."

Eames smirked at him. "And you tell me that you don't have a thing for thieves."

"Perhaps you're just not a very good thief," Arthur shot back.

Eames laughed, the sound very warm compared to the chill seeping in the room from the porch door being slightly ajar. "I think we both know that that's not true."

"I think that would make both of us delusional if we did think that." Arthur looked down as he felt a tug on his pant leg. He crouched in front of James. "What is it?"

"Unka Artie, you gotta save A'din! He's _dying_!" James said earnestly. "You gotta save 'im or he don't marry Jasmine!"

Arthur smiled and took James' hand. "Alright, let's go. Can't let Aladdin die now, can we?"

Arthur sat in the far left seat of the couch, James settled on his lap and Phillipa stretched out on the rest of the space. Dom and Mal were talking to some of Dom's cousins who'd come to town to spend the holidays.

They had to change the channel off of _Aladdin_ to watch the ball drop in Times Square, so the children were a little upset and Arthur couldn't get up because James seemed to want to refuse to get up. Champagne glasses were refilled as everyone gathered in the living room.

"….four! Three! Two! One!"

Shouts of "Happy New Year!" were mingled with kisses and hugs. Mal pulled away from her husband to kiss her children on the foreheads, Dom right behind her, laughing.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Eames braced a hand on Arthur's shoulder to steady himself—perhaps he'd had more champagne than he thought—and when Arthur turned instinctively, he brushed a kiss at the corner of the point man's mouth. "Happy New Year, darling."

Arthur repeated the sentiment automatically, but there was still a tension there. _(There's boundaries, the both of them agree on that if nothing else. Eames hasn't crossed a line this time, but he's toeing it)_

Eames uncurled a smirk as he pulled away. "Check your pockets." Arthur wasn't surprised to find his wallet missing and he held out the hand not wrapped around James' waist for its return. "So, a better thief than you thought?"

Arthur put the wallet away in his pocket before he tilted his head back to get a good look at Eames, matching the forger's smirk. He raised his hand, a ring of keys dangling from his middle finger. "Apparently, not good enough."

Eames blinked at him, wondering when, exactly, he'd gotten a chance to steal his car keys, before he burst out laughing. "Touché, darling."

**Arthur has always been too kind.**

This was what happened when the higher-ups gave them a few days' leave—some drinking, some gambling, a bit more—okay, a lot more drinking—and all that led to was lighter pockets and a sudden, fierce loathing for sunlight and loud noises in the morning.

Eames had been curled in his cot, face buried in the pillow so that the light coming through the blinds didn't sear his eyes out until his stomach had rebelled and he was currently leaning his head on the toilet seat, the taste of vomit still in the back of his throat.

"…You look like hell."

At that, Eames tilted his head a little so that he could see the newest recruit standing there. The kid—he certainly looked like one, skinny, lean and skin browned from Iraqi sun, even though he was only, perhaps, four years younger—usually never spoke save for responding to superiors, so to hear the quiet, hoarse voice was an occurrence in and of itself.

"I 'preciate the honesty." When the kid—Arthur, was his name—didn't look like he was getting ready to move from his post at the bathroom doorframe anytime soon, Eames asked, "What're you doin' here?"

"…Do you want me to get you anything since you don't look like you're going to be on your feet before noon?" It was quite possibly the longest sentence Eames had ever heard out of him. "Water? Aspirin?"

Eames was grateful that Arthur had such a quiet voice. Most of the other dreamworkers were much louder and he was sure that, had they been in Arthur's position, they would have made his already splitting headache doubly worse.

"…Aspirin would be appreciated."

The kid left and returned a few minutes later, crouching beside Eames to drop two extra-strength Advil in his hand and holding out a glass of water.

Eames gulped both down quickly, probably more quickly than he should, but the water was a balm to his throat, which felt raw from vomiting. When his stomach didn't immediately bring the water back up, he sat a little straighter so that he could look at Arthur. "I was under the impression that you weren't particularly fond of me."

Arthur shrugged, running a hand over military-short hair, like he was used to feeling more there. "I'm not. But you're blocking the bathroom for everyone else's use and I don't want to hear you complaining all day."

Eames chuckled. "So selfless."

"That's me; the great humanitarian." Arthur got back to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Need anything else?"

"No, thank you."

The kid left the bathroom with a nod and Eames decided that Arthur was more interesting than he'd seemed.

**Arthur dreams of a quiet life sometimes.**

Eames never told Arthur that he saw the looks. They weren't common enough that he felt the need to comment on them anyway; they just went into his mental file that was labeled Arthur Reynolds. The looks that were thoughtful in a different way than when Arthur was pondering a current problem on the job. They usually happened well away from the job, sometimes at lunch, and he would watch the ordinary people go about their lives, see children race each other up and down the streets and neighbors call out to each other.

Sometimes, Eames wondered what would have become of the person in front of him if Arthur James Reynolds had never died. Would the twins have finally come home to a smiling sister and embracing mother? Would Cameron have gone to university? And if so, what would he have gone for? Eames had no doubt that, if Cameron had wanted to do just about anything, he could do it if he wanted it badly enough. Would he perhaps have met a girl, had his small town wedding? If so, there would almost certainly be children involved. Cameron—Arthur—loved children. Or perhaps he would have met a boy, would have lived out his life with him.

"…Eames."

The forger blinked, eyes refocusing on the younger man in front of him. Arthur's only concession to the Brazilian heat was to remove his suit jacket. Sometimes, Eames wondered whether he did it out of stubbornness or if he really didn't notice the heat that much anymore.

"You looked lost in space," Arthur continued.

"…Do you ever think about how life could have been?" Eames asked suddenly.

Arthur took a sip of his water as he considered his answer. "Sometimes, I suppose. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Do you think about it?"

"Mm. Every now and again."

_(Arthur can imagine what Eames thinks about at those times, about Sherallyn and his daughter at home, of steady, legal jobs and being called 'dad')_

Arthur leaned back in his seat, looking out at the city. "Still…any other life would seem really quiet compared to this one."

Eames smiled a little. "True." He held up his own glass of water in a toast. "To adventure."

Arthur clinked his glass against his. "Cheers."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finished Season 1 of Hannibal. Loved it. It's weird, since you know how the series is going to end, but it still sucks me in.

_A true friend never gets in your way unless you happen to be going down. ~Arnold Glasow_

* * *

**Sometimes, Eames forgets who he is.**

Arthur wasn't fond of the heat. Particularly not the kind of heat that sprawled over Nairobi, Kenya at this of year. In truth, he hadn't come here often, but he knew the streets well enough to navigate his way out to Eames' safehouse. His 'real' safehouse, as Arthur liked to call it in the privacy of his mind, for Eames had dozens of them scattered across the globe, much like Arthur did.

Arthur had given Eames forty-eight hours since he called him for the forger to call him back. The longer Eames took, the pricklier the hairs on the back of the point man's neck had become. Eames might ignore calls from other people, but he didn't ignore Arthur if he could help it, even when they were both good and truly angry at each other because he knew it was in his best interest that Arthur knew where he was.

The fact that Eames hadn't gotten back to Arthur was a bad sign. Hence, the immediate jumping on a plane out here. As much as Eames loved Mombasa, he'd admitted that he didn't trust Cobol and some very powerful companies who were fond of his forgeries were in Nairobi, which was just a train ride away from Mombasa. All rather convenient for him, really.

He'd called Yusuf to see if he knew anything. He'd practically been able to see the chemist shaking his head. "I haven't seen him for two weeks. Said he'd had a job."

Apartment number 316. Arthur knocked first and waited. Counted the seconds to sixty. Didn't hear anything from inside. So he slipped a case of lockpicks from his inside pockets—a Christmas present from Eames several years back—and it took him four seconds to unlock the door, one for each tumbler.

The apartment was dark and a fan was spinning slowly on the ceiling. Arthur waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust before stepping deeper into the apartment. "Eames?"

He found the sofa and the coffee table with his shins, nearly tipping over a precariously balanced stack of books. He ran a hand along the wall to guide him, the other keeping a light grip on the pistol he pulled from the small of his back. He glanced into the kitchen—the microwave read 6:27 PM—and all was dark still. So far, no signs of a struggle.

He continued forward to Eames' bedroom, with its thin, softly worn sheets and squishy pillows. Clothes were crumpled on the floor, a tie dangling over the headboard. The only source of light was what spilled from beneath the bathroom door.

"Eames?" Arthur called cautiously. The shower wasn't running, so he didn't have to speak particularly loud. "You in there?"

When no one answered, Arthur tried the doorknob, relieved that it turned beneath his hand with ease. The bathroom found Eames standing before the mirror, arms braced on the sink, a towel knotted around his waist. His hair looked darker when it was wet, plastered across the back of his neck and his forehead. He didn't look good, dark smudges forming beneath his eyes and his skin looked tight. The tattoos, having begun with Charles Anderson, the best friend dead in a car accident, look stark and wrong on his skin in this light. Or perhaps it was just the situation.

Eyes as gray as London skies looked over at the opening of the door and the tension in those powerful shoulders eased somewhat. "…Arthur."

The point man stowed the gun away. "Jesus, Eames. Please tell me you lost your phone."

Eames shook his head. "It's on the dresser. I heard it ring a few times."

There was something that he wasn't telling him. "But…?"

"I don't know."

Arthur leaned back against the wall, watching Eames' expression in the mirror. Something was very wrong. "What don't you know?"

"Too many names. People. In my head."

Arthur closed his eyes and tilted his head back so that it touched the wall. This wasn't the first time this had happened, though it had been a long time. The last time Eames had gotten lost in his forges had been before Mal died.

"Can you tell me anything?" Arthur asked.

"Richard Terrid was born on November twenty-ninth, 1971. He's left-handed, hates Sudoku, likes crossword and reads the finance section of the paper every morning. John Fellman is an engineer, married to Karla Marie Atters since 2000, has two kids with a third on the way. Melissa Lyman attended Stanford University, class of 1991—"

"They aren't you." Arthur interrupted. He'd heard some of those names before, had helped him make some of the documents for the aliases, had been there for the forgeries in the dreams. "Tell me something about you."

Eames shut his eyes, hands gripping the sink in a white-knuckled grip. "Nothing. I can't remember anything. It's all jumbled."

Arthur pushed himself off the wall and led Eames to sit on the toilet seat cover, taking his own seat on the edge of the bathtub. "Your name used to be Allen Reed. Does that ring a bell?"

Eames had his palms pressed against his eyelids. "…He has a daughter."

" _You_ have a daughter," Arthur corrected. "She's turning sixteen this year. Do you remember Sherallyn?"

Yes, he remembered Sherallyn. Sassy, steel-spined and stubborn. Eames nodded. "She was my wife. But she isn't anymore."

"Right. Allen and Sherallyn Reed divorced eight years ago."

He took his hands away from his eyes and studied him. "That isn't what you called me though. You don't know Allen Reed."

"No, I don't." Arthur agreed. "I never did. I know Eames."

"Forger. Smokes Marlboros. Drinks. Gambles. Last job working counter-Cobol." The information flickers back into his information much easier than the rest of it. He wondered if it was because it was much more recent or because of the sharp-dressed man sitting beside him. Which reminded him… "You came to Africa dressed like that, darling?" The last word felt right in his mouth, on his tongue, to this person.

Arthur's lips quirked a little towards a smile, the hint of dimples appearing. "Welcome back, Mr. Eames."

_(This is one of the good times. Before, Arthur has walked in on Eames curled on the couch, forehead pressed against his raised knees, totem clutched in his hand to the point where it's bruising and scraping his palm, and muttering information in a seemingly endless stream. "Eames, forger, wife and daughter, Mombasa and Nairobi, Charlie Anderson…")_

**Eames is jealous of Cobb.**

He'd almost wanted to sabotage inception. In fact, before he'd learned just how deep Dom had led them— _"So you led us into a warzone with no way out?"_ —he'd been subconsciously planning it inside his mind. He had nothing invested in this job really and while it would hurt his reputation, forgers were still rare enough that big extractions couldn't go without him.

Because, quite honestly, he wondered why it was that Cobb got the opportunity to go back to his family, to his children. To his beautiful little girl who reminds Eames of Amara. To his clever son, James, who had so much of his mother in him.

Arthur found him at the airport after inception, sitting outside on a bench, trying to consider whether he should hide away in the States or catch a flight out to…wherever he felt like going.

"You can go back to her any time, you do know that." Arthur leaned against the back of the bench, a little off guard since the beginning of this job.

Eames glanced up at him before looking back out at the taxis and buses that were leading people everywhere but here. His restlessness itched at him then, making him want to just _go_. "You know I can't, darling."

Arthur did know. He knew that Eames was of two minds. One was constantly on his little girl—well, not so little anymore—and his wife ( _Ex-wife)_ and the other was always searching for the next challenge, the next stamp on his passport, the next new alley to discover. The next job to pull, the next dream where he got to create in such a way that to go back to the world, the normal, ordinary, utterly boring world, was so limiting. And he couldn't choose, for love came in so many very different variations because Eames did love what he did _(Sometimes, Arthur dares to think, Eames might even love him and what they had—unorthodox and familiar as it was—a little too)_ and he loved his wife and daughter and the idea of the quiet life. And he refused to do both, to be a horrible father rather than a virtually nonexistent one.

Arthur's head was pounding and he wanted desperately to sleep. But first things first. "C'mon, Eames. Drinks are on me."

And they did get drunk—Arthur rather less so if only because something inside him rebelled at getting well and truly smashed. He would let himself get tipsy, in anything—and they did end up in a hotel room. And they would wake up with horrible headaches and dry throats and budding bruises all over them, but Arthur did succeed in one endeavor: to help Eames forget what wasn't his anymore.

**Eames has a cousin—twice removed—that lives in Ireland.**

Eames mentioned him once, offhand. It had been part of a story, told in the midst of good red wine and the last rays of the sun warming the room. He had his own business—Blackwater Bar—that did well enough that he could get by.

Four months after Mal's death, this was where Arthur found him.

Eames' cousin—Gabriel—eyed him suspiciously when he walked through the door before going back to his work. The bar was empty—unsurprising at ten o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday and Gabriel was in the midst of sweeping.

"We're closed. Come back tonight."

"I'm looking for Allen." Eames was a different man than Allen Reed, just as Arthur was a different person than Cameron. It was a strange distinction to have to make in his mind, something he had to work through in his head every time something like this happened.

Gabriel looked up at him. "How do you know my cousin?'

"We're…colleagues."

"Are you Arthur?"

Arthur blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected anyone out here to know him. "Yes, I am."

"He talks about you a lot. Maybe you can knock some sense into him since he's apparently stopped listening to me. He's upstairs, second door on the right."

"Thanks."

Eames was dressed in fresh clothes _(It's one of his hideous shirts and Arthur almost wants to laugh when he sees it because the burst of_ color _is so familiar and so bright_ ), hair still unkempt and stubble still darkening his jaw. He looked up when the door opened. "Arthur."

"Lovely to see you too, Mr. Eames." Arthur hadn't been getting much sleep since Mal died either. Even if he'd be able to sleep, Dom certainly couldn't. It was only now that he was sure that Dom wasn't likely to jump off a building himself that Arthur had come out to check on Eames, still remembering the drunken phone call to Dom's house.

_"She's gone, Arthur."_

Eames' eyes went over Arthur, but not the way they usually would. This was a tired, concerned motion. "Have you been eating?" He looked thinner and not in the good way.

"I could ask you the same thing. Or have you been living on your cousin's alcohol for four months?"

"And the peanuts. Don't forget those."

"Mm. How could I?" Arthur paused. "In all seriousness, Eames…how are you?"

"How do you think?" There was some fight left in his tone, but he still sounded life-tired. _(Eames is tired of losing friends. He thinks, one day, he'll run out of space on his body to tattoo their memories on)_ "Mal's gone, Arthur. Sometimes, when my phone rings, I still expect it to be her, calling to make sure I'm still alive and if I can make it to dinner."

"…Sometimes I think I see her." Arthur confessed. "In the street. I'll see someone who smiles like her, or who laughs like she did," Free and unashamed. "Or a red-haired woman and I'll look and—once, it was in a supermarket. This, woman had red hair and had a little girl in her cart. I didn't know I was staring until she asked me if I needed something."

"…How's Dom?"

Arthur closed his eyes, the world suddenly seeming to shrink on itself. "I'm not afraid he's going to follow her now, at least."

"Shit, Arthur. Did he try?"

"Not that I saw. When I went down to Santiago to meet up with him, he had a gun in his hand and—it didn't look good, but it could've just been paranoia. I see him staring at windows sometimes like he sees a ghost."

"He needs to get better. For Phillipa and James. They need their father."

"I've been reminding him."

"…I need to get hers. That's where I was going today."

Arthur didn't have to ask what. Every person Eames had lost ended up somewhere on his body, an old tradition of his. "Do you know what you're going to put?"

"Yeah. Some gladiolus blossoms." Arthur tilted his head curiously, the question unspoken, but understood. "They're supposed to symbolize strength of character."

And Mal had certainly had that. "How do you know that?"

Eames got his coat and Arthur followed him out the door. "…My mum had a garden. She loved flowers. Had a great big book on them."

Eames was still a little hungover then, elsewise, he wouldn't have given the information so easily. But Arthur stayed with him while he got the tattoo, an intricate, small vine of the white blossoms curving along the line of his shoulders.

It's one of the few things Arthur had ever heard about his parents.

**Eames almost told someone about Arthur James Reynolds.**

Eames' curiosity liked nudge and scratch at him, like a particularly insistent stray cat. And he hated it because it was what had him here in the first place, delving into Arthur's mind. It wasn't the first time—hell, Arthur had allowed him here more than once—but his curiosity could never get enough of the endless twists and turns of Arthur's mind.

_(In another truth, he likes to see the different Arthur. The one he can't bring out because he's not the twin that died, likes to see what's left of Cameron Reynolds, all sweet, sad smiles and brotherly love because it's another facet of the person he's come to know)_

But Arthur James Reynolds—the protector, the elder, the one who was always keeping an eye out for his little brother—always knew when he was here. And Eames had been down here and spoken with him, had been down here and hadn't been ripped to pieces because the twins hadn't found each other yet in the dream. It was after that that it was dangerous to enter Arthur's mind because Arthur James Reynolds had all of his brother's deadliness, all his skill, with the instinctive, half-feral movements of a projection

But Arthur James Reynolds wasn't mad when he died, hadn't died knowing about totems and dream-sharing, so he didn't show that base side at face value. It made him a little more dangerous.

Green eyes—venomous, in their detection of him, poisonous, we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore Technicolor green—were locked on him, over the younger brother's shoulder for a split second before Arthur turned.

Eames didn't know how to describe the expression on Arthur's face because he saw it for a bare moment before mirrored walls jammed up between him and them—he didn't know if this was Arthur trying to protect him from his own mind or a peculiar brand of projection—and all Eames could see were endless variations of himself, each splitting and branching off into eternity.

Then Arthur's reflection appeared in the mirror's—no, not Arthur's. Arthur James Reynold's—and he could hear mirrors smashing and the landscape changing and Arthur James Reynold was slipping out of the mirror, quicksilver as the wicked knife in his hand before he felt another presence and before he could turn, a gunshot and he was falling awake.

* * *

Arthur didn't look at him for a day after that. It probably would have gone on longer if Eames hadn't confronted him. The silence was wrong, too tense and the wrong kind of electric.

Arthur's hands were clenched around the back of a chair. "You crossed a line, Eames. You shouldn't have been there."

Eames glanced around the basement at the others, all intent on their work, before speaking in a low, harsh whisper. "Perhaps I did, but I'm not the one keeping my dead brother alive in my mind."

Arthur's face went smooth and cold. "I don't believe that it's any of your concern, Mr. Eames, what goes on in my mind."

That stung. Arthur hadn't sounded like that since they were first getting to know each other, back just after Arthur James Reynolds had died from an explosion at his twin's feet and Cameron—name already changed to Arthur because it wasn't difficult to fool the military, particularly with a twin involved—had come, hollow-eyed, quiet and angry, to the dream-sharing program.

The basement was suddenly overwhelming and suffocating and Eames grabbed his jacket on the way out without another word. He needed a smoke—or several—and a drink.

* * *

 

Eames couldn't get the image out of his head for days. Arthur's face—younger, true, with slight differences—twisted in anger as he stalked toward him from beyond the glass, predatory with knife in hand. It kept him from sleeping for more than a night or two and it made dealing with Arthur more difficult.

And he still couldn't say what the expression on Arthur's face had been, or if that mirrored labyrinth had been his idea or his brother's. The difference was a terrible chasm of possibilities.

Eames had half a mind, at one point, to tell Dom about Arthur James Reynolds. To explain to him how one of his closest friends was trapping a memory in his mind. He could imagine Dom's reaction and the resulting argument—explosion more like it—between them. He didn't, though. After all, Arthur didn't allow Arthur James Reynolds outside the steel cage of his incredible control, hadn't endangered anyone.

Yet.


	11. Chapter 11

_"Good things don't happen when people put aside their differences, but when they embrace them."_

_-Anonymous_

* * *

**By the time Eames met him, Arthur was still a soldier, just not a good one.**

The first time Eames saw the wound, the medic was gently cleaning it in the infirmary. The wound was splattered across Arthur's side, still raw-looking and healing at the edges. It's too much for a kid who couldn't be more than, what, twenty? _Maybe_ twenty-one.

He was the newest recruit—Arthur, Marines, served in Iraq for two years before having to be discharged on account of injuries—and he was quick to understand what was going on with the dreamwork, even if, for the first few, long months, he couldn't go under with them because they weren't sure how the somancin would react with the drugs in his system that were fighting off any possible infection from that wound.

So he would sit and study the levels, asking questions and making suggestions. The kid was intelligent, they'd all give him that, but he was too quiet, too withdrawn. Eames never mentioned how he knew that something had gone wrong out there in Iraq because a person didn't get hollow eyes like the ones the kid had from just being blown up.

"Don't overexert yourself," the medic warned as he finished bandaging him up.

The kid nodded, wincing a little as he shrugged his shirt back on. All Eames saw him wear were button shirts, but he supposed it made logical sense if on one didn't want to mess with an injury of that size by trying to pull clothes over the head.

It was one of the sleepless nights—one of many that Eames had because, sometimes, he still dreamed of Sheral's familiar warmth beside him or he would stare at the door on stormy nights and wait for his beautiful little girl to poke her head inside and dash across the floor in pitter-patters like rain and ask, _Daddy, can I stay with you?_ —that Eames wandered the base, cigarette wobbling between his lips. He wandered past the barracks, past the mess hall, past the training area outside that had been known to change overnight.

There was a light on in the weights room. Curiosity—an old friend of Eames'—touched her hand on his shoulder and led him there with silvery, seductive eyes and a lover's smile.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find the kid there. He was sitting, dumbbells in each hand and it was the left side—the one with the pink-and-red wound stretching from below the waistband of his pants up to hover below his pectorals—that made him clench his jaw with every movement.

Don't overexert yourself, the medic had told him. Clearly, the kid had some of a rebel in him.

"I pictured you more of a track and field type," Eames said and the kid glanced up.

"You like putting people in boxes?" The kid replied, continuing in his weight-lifting.

"I like knowing who doesn't fit in their boxes."

The kid's arms were trembling now and he set down the weights with an air of futile frustration. "Gotta have a hobby."

Eames sat on the next bench and offered him a cigarette. He didn't usually offer them to kids—well, perhaps this one wasn't as much of a kid as he kept thinking. There was obviously a good brain in there and anyone who went to war couldn't very well be called a child anymore—but he thought he'd make an exception.

"Trying to give me lung cancer?" The kid—Arthur, his name was Arthur—took one anyway and Eames lit it with an unconscious motion. He didn't even have to think about pulling the lighter out anymore.

"The doctors who tell you that are overrated."

Arthur snorted before inhaling. It was calming, sitting there and smoking, even if they weren't supposed to and, one of these days, they were going to set off the fire alarm. They sat there until they were smoking filters and that was when they left for the barracks, the smell of smoke lingering behind them.

* * *

 

Everyone heard the mutters and the grumbles of the medic the next day. "Dammit, Arthur, you can't just rest like you're told? You keep splitting the scabs with whatever you're doing."

And Eames would smirk silently as he slid the needle in his arm, leaning back against the chair and waiting for the somancin to take effect. It was possible that the good little soldier that Arthur had been was gone, that there was a part of him that was done with following orders. And wasn't that interesting?

**Once a year, Arthur drops off the grid.**

On October twenty-fourth of every year, Arthur becomes the Invisible Man. No one knows where he is, no one knows why and no one has any way to contact him.

It isn't until several years of knowing about Arthur James Reynolds that Eames pieces it together. Of course, he knows of the one day where Arthur is utterly unreachable. The first few times it happened, he gave both him and Mal quite the scare. But Arthur would return their calls on October twenty-fifth and assure them that yes, he was alive, and no, he wasn't kidnapped.

Even after piecing it together, Eames still doesn't know if he's right. Arthur is one of the best at tricking people, even outside of dreams. He's managed to fool most of the world that he's someone else; it would be child's play to trick people into believing he was somewhere where he wasn't.

So Eames is careful to keep a very sharp eye on his movements in the week leading up to October twenty-fourth. He notices the extra tension in his lover's shoulders, in the fact that, sometimes, Arthur would wake up curling instinctively toward his scarred side. Eames knows about things like that; old scars—particularly the kinds with memories attached—tended to twinge sharply if you thought about them too much.

The night of October twenty-third, Eames settled in beside Arthur like always, one arm wrapped around his waist, his face close enough to the back of his neck that he could smell him. Not his shampoo or his aftershave, but him.

In his mind, he thinks he should have felt Arthur get up. He probably did, but, in the wee hours of the morning when all he wants is to go back to bed, Arthur can persuade him to do just about anything. And that includes believing that Arthur had just gotten up to go to the bathroom.

But he's always had his files with names on them in the back of his mind. And he pulls out Arthur's and a flurry of information comes up. Everything from favorite ice cream flavor—strawberry—to everything about Arthur James Reynolds. And, somewhere in all this is the date October twenty-fourth and he follows the threads that connect his information and it leads him to Arthur James Reynolds and Eames knows of only one reason why a date would be important when related to him.

So he catches the first flight to Vermont and he has to check just about every cemetery in the near vicinity of Arthur's hometown before he finds him.

It shouldn't be shocking, the sight of Arthur seated in front of a grave, but somehow, seeing the reality of Eames' theory, it still is. The grave is simple, square with an endless knot carved into it.

  
_Here lies_ _Arthur James Reynolds  
_ _Beloved brother and son  
_ _September 27, 1984—October 24, 2004_   


Arthur hasn't noticed him yet, is still sitting with his knees up and his elbows resting on his knees. Vermont is cold in autumn and he's huddled in his coat a little, his cheeks pink from the wind. When the wind turns, Eames hears a snippet of his voice and he wonders what Arthur's telling his brother. Or asking.

So Eames goes to a lamppost at the edge of this row of graves and waits. He considers lighting a smoke, but decides against it in honor of the dead. He leans there until sunset, watching the trees with their wash of warm, beautiful colors.

Arthur stiffens when he sees him. "What're you doing here?"

Eames doesn't look at him; this isn't simply crossing a line. This is The Line. "…You know me, darling. Can't keep my curiosity at bay."

"Maybe that's something you should work on." Arthur's voice—icy as the promise of snow on the wind—lets Eames know the extent to which he's crossed The Line. Most of Arthur's lines composed of his brother and Eames knows that he's lucky he isn't getting punched right now. Because when Arthur feels backed into a corner, he does one of two things: lashes out or stows it away as fuel for the next time.

"I've talked to him, y'know," Eames calls as Arthur walks away. "Your brother."

There is a terrible stillness to Arthur after that statement. "What?"

"In your mind. I've talked to him." The actual Arthur James Reynolds, not the half-feral shade of him that was the projection. He'd liked him; the protectiveness, the slow curl of the arrogant smile, the unashamed laughter. "Perhaps I just wanted to pay my own respects."

Arthur looks like he's struggling to find words before he just says, "Go ahead." and leaves.

Eames does pay his respects. He stands in front of the grave and, after a hesitant moment, tells Arthur James Reynolds about the man his little brother has become.

* * *

 

He doesn't go back to Arthur's apartment—technically their apartment now—right away. He lets Arthur work out the anger that is surely there for a day before he goes back the next night. He slips in the door _(Like a thief)_ and undresses before sliding under the covers.

Arthur's awake, he knows. Has probably been awake since the moment he heard the front door open. But he doesn't react to Eames coming in or getting into bed. Eames leans his forehead against Arthur's shoulder, one hand gently tracing the red-brown scar tissue on his side. "I'm sorry," he says finally.

_(Sorry that the war had to happen, sorry that you and your brother were in the wrong place at the very wrong time, sorry that your brother was killed, sorry that he'd had to deal with it all alone because the dreamsharing program didn't allow him to go back to his family, to his feisty, smart little sister and his strong mother. Sorry about it all)_

Arthur doesn't make any motion that he heard him for a moment before he relaxes back into Eames. He's forgiven.

**Arthur was the one to come up with the plan to steal the PASIV from the military.**

He found Eames in one of the dreams. Arthur, that is.

"Is this your idea of checking a dream for structural integrity?" Eames asked.

Arthur glanced around before saying, "I have a proposition for you."

"I thought your government had a law against that sort of thing in the military, but if you insist—"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Not _that_ kind of proposition."

Eames uncurled a smirk. "You should really be more specific. So what is this proposition of yours?"

There wasn't anything but confidence in the coffee-brown eyes. "I'm planning to steal a PASIV and some somancin and get out of here."

"And you need my help?"

"No. But I would prefer it. Think about it, Eames. What they've invented here is a powerful thing; do you really want to leave the decisions of when it gets used and what for to the government?"

Eames folded his arms across his chest; the kid had a good point. "If you really thinking that stealing one PASIV is going to be enough, you're more of a kid than I thought."

"It isn't, but it means we can run counter-government if we have to. That anyone can if they can get their hands on one of the PASIVs."

"And everyone's so capable of doing that."

"They are if we sell the blueprints of the PASIV and the somancin formula. Stealing secrets from people's minds; it's corporate espionage's wet dream."

Eames had known that Arthur was intelligent, but he had some elements of a criminal mastermind. "I like it, but why cut me in on this?"

"We can both extract secrets, that isn't the hard part. The hard part is what you can do. Forging. The military's found one other person that can do it. It's a great asset in the field."

"And you? Where do you fit in?" Eames had seen Arthur work in a dream and he's fairly certain that, even if someone could do what he could do with his understanding of manipulating things into the impossible, that they wouldn't be quite as good at it as he was.

"You need someone who knows how to fight and how to work the dream. Besides, trying to make it in this business on your own is suicide."

He knew how to drive a bargain. Besides, he'd already done a few things to catch Eames' interest and this was only adding to the list. Eames liked interesting people.

So he agreed. "Alright then. You've got yourself a partner. How exactly do you plan to steal the PASIV?"

"I can't. But you can, can't you?"

Eames narrowed his eyes at him. "You _are_ good." Never revealing his hand until he had what he wanted because he knew, even after such a short acquaintance with Eames that Eames would keep his word. And he already had a frighteningly accurate measure of Eames' talents. "So if I'm stealing the PASIV…"

"And the somancin. I'll steal the blueprints and the formula."

"And how do you intend to do that, Mr. Master Thief?"

Arthur flashed a dimpled grin—a false one, but Eames only knew that from his observations and damn if it didn't have just the right mixture of adult appreciation and boyish charm. "The scientists' assistants like me."

"Oh, I'll bet they do." The ground began to tremble beneath them. "It's starting to collapse. We must be out of time."

Arthur held out a deceptively slim hand. "See you up top then?"

Eames shook his hand once, decisively. "Absolutely."

**Arthur and cold nights don't get along.**

One would think that people that disliked the cold as much as they did would stop living near it. The cold that was enough that the windows were frosted and that there would likely be a snowy slush, at the very least, on the ground tomorrow. Sometimes, it was worse and the hail would rail against their windows and the snow would be halfway up their shins.

Years before they ever kissed, ever had sex, ever did more than tease and snipe at each other, they'd had to curl beneath the same blankets for warmth because they couldn't always afford central heating.

It wasn't that they were bad bed partners, really. At least when it was cold, they weren't because they had their priorities. Warmth before hogging covers or pillows, or sprawling out on the bed, as Eames tended to do _(He still remembers Sherallyn, with her slow glide of a smile and the ease with which she'd fit beside him, blonde curls tumbling over her bare shoulders. He can't stand the empty space on the bed where she used to be)_. They actually tended to fall asleep rather easily on those nights.

Of course, at some point on time on those nights, Eames will be jerked awake and he'll bolt upright, instincts on high alert. Arthur will turn over a little and blink blearily at him.

"The hell're you doin'?" he'd mumble, one hand sweeping disheveled curls out of his face.

Once Eames' mind recognized that there was no danger, he'd glare at his bed partner. "Have you ever heard of these new-fangled things called socks, darling?" Arthur frowned in confusion. "Your feet are bloody freezing." And, because of said cold feet, Arthur would look for the closest warmth there was, which was generally Eames' shins.

Arthur would mumble something that sounded suspiciously like that Eames was warmer than socks before telling him to just go back to sleep, that it would be dawn in a few hours and that he was warm now anyway.

Eames would settle down a little grumpily and, after a half a moment's indecision, tug Arthur closer by the waist and swear to himself that, next Christmas, he was buying the point man some of those ridiculous fuzzy socks that came in the bright colors. See if he got cold feet then.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames disappeared from the world for a year.

* * *

_"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art...It has no survival value; rather, it is one of those things that gives value to survival."  
-C.S Lewis_

* * *

**Eames is fond of musicals.**

Arthur came home once to find Eames singing as he cooked.

_"Be brave, young lovers, and follow your star,  
_ _Be brave and faithful and true,  
_ _Cling very close to each other tonight,  
_ _I've been in love like you…"_

Arthur set down his keys as quietly as he could and toed off his shoes as he shrugged off his coat. Eames had a wonderful singing voice, smooth and low, but that never stopped Arthur from teasing him if he sang in the shower.

_"I know how it feels to have wings on your heels,  
_ _And to fly down the street in a trance.  
_ _You fly down the street on the chance that you'll meet,  
_ _And you meet—not really by chance."_

He was singing along with the soundtrack, which, if Arthur listened for it, he could hear playing low on the small radio they kept on the counter.

There was a short round of hissed cursing and Arthur could imagine Eames' expression, no doubt brought on by singed fingers from the frying pan. The sound of running water was gone as soon as it came. Arthur loosened his tie as he padded across the wooden floors to the kitchen door, unsurprised that Eames didn't notice him as he continued making…whatever it was that he was making. The forger liked to experiment, even if said experiments didn't always turn out well.

_"…mories are happy tonight.  
_ _I've had a love of my own.  
_ _I've had a love my own, like yours.  
_ _I've had a love of my own…"_

" _The King and I._ Interesting choice." Arthur set the grocery bag down on the counter. "They were out of rice, but I thought pasta would make a good substitute."

Eames turned to look at him, opening the bag and pulling out the pasta. "Thank you, darling. And I thought you weren't fond of musicals?"

"I only know a few and most of them are because I see you watching them late at night."

"Most?"

Arthur shrugged a little. "Mina was in _Guys and Dolls_ in high school. It grew on me."

Eames laughed, loud and warm. It was easy to imagine; Arthur, in his neat suits and his dry wit, enjoying a musical like that. "Next time it comes to town, perhaps we'll be able to catch it."

"Perhaps."

**Eames disappeared from the world for a year.**

Arthur found out about it when they went early to a job in Florida to scope everything out. The site looked good, with multiple exits and Arthur had already found a good rendezvous point in case things went wrong. They drove out about an hour to the beach with a classic rock station playing—"Do something spontaneous, darling."—and now they were walking, two sets of footprints side by side in the sand.

Eames had left his shoes in the car and was walking close enough that the water gently lapped at his feet. He slowed to a stop, hands in his pockets as he looked out at the water. It was late enough that the tourists had gone and all that was left were some college students that were beginning to pack up.

Arthur mimicked him, socks stuffed in his shoes and his shoes in a hand. The sea, like this, was a strange sight still to him. He'd grown up in Vermont and then had gone to Iraq. They'd had lakes back in Vermont, big things that he remembered mistaking for the ocean when he was a kid, but nothing like this. No smell of salt, no mountains to be seen on the opposite shore. He didn't often get a chance to go to the beach. When he pictured an ocean, he still pictured it as what he saw from the airplane window.

"My grandmother used to talk about wanting to see the ocean." Arthur began. He wasn't sure why he suddenly felt like sharing that piece of information—he'd almost forgotten all he'd known about the grandmother who'd lived three neighborhoods over and had come to the house every holiday. "She had paintings of it all through her house and she loved lighthouses. But she was always too poor to go and, when she had enough money, she was too old for travel like that."

_(He doesn't remember the photograph of the man that she kept beside the small statues of the lighthouses, or of the photographs on the wall. They were in black and white and many were browned from age. He doesn't remember that the man wore a Navy uniform. He never knew about his grandfather who his brother was named after that had made it through the second World War and had lived through so much until a heart attack took him. He doesn't remember the way that his grandmother would talk about the sea like it would be the place where she could find her husband one day)_

Eames glanced sideways. "…My mum's mum lived by the sea. She would say that the sea was the great healer. It could wash everything away and always come back the same, but different. Without memory, she'd say. Without regrets." _(Sometimes, Eames thinks that Arthur is a bit like the sea. Or is it Cameron? Constantly shifting names and personalities—not quite as many as Eames, but Arthur's breaks with his aliases are cleaner than Eames')_

Arthur hummed in recognition, taking a few steps forward until the water brushed over his feet. It was colder than he thought, but not as cold as the water had always been back in Vermont. Florida sun was good at keeping things warm.

_(They've been a little broken recently. Arthur and Eames, that is. Not the point man and the forger, not professionally. In that respect, they still work together as flawlessly as they did in that very first dream. But personally, they're a little broken. Mal's memory is in their minds and it doesn't want to leave, despite it having been more than two years and Eames crosses lines like they aren't there and Arthur isn't sure if he can forgive him for that.)_

Arthur thought about mentioning that whenever he or his brother or his sister were hurting when they were kids, his mother would tell them to go lie down in her bed and she would come in with a plate of chocolate chip cookies—because while white chocolate macadamia nut was their favorite, chocolate chip was best for the heart, or so she told them—and she would sit in a rocking chair by the bed, pull out her glasses and show them a book with several stories and she would say, "Which one would you like me to read?"

Arthur remembered looking up at her and asking, "Both?"

She would smile and place her glasses on her nose _just so_ and say, "Yes, I think we can do both."

It was a ritual, something that they knew they were always welcome to. Arthur wondered if Mina had curled in their mother's bed after Arthur James Reynolds' death, had nibbled at chocolate chip cookies with their mother as she read a story.

"…I lived with her. For about a year. I must've been…fourteen. Didn't go to school. Just stayed and helped her do laundry, clean, walked on the beach."

Arthur looked at Eames. "With your grandmother?"

Eames nodded and he seemed to debate with himself for a moment before he said, "…Yes. It was after my mother died." Arthur didn't ask what happened to Eames' father. It was one of those lines that he was careful not to cross, like Sherallyn and Amara.

This ocean wasn't like the ocean Eames remembered growing up. This ocean didn't rumble like England shores, didn't have the same grey skies and cold weather. This ocean was softer, warmer, and yet, Eames had seen what this ocean could do that the one back in England couldn't. He'd seen news reels about the hundred mile an hour winds that ripped houses to pieces, that tore trees out from the roots. Had heard about the weeks without electricity or water after one of their storms—it's too light a word for what those forces of nature were.

Deceptively soft, then. Deceivingly warm. But the qualities were the same. This ocean didn't remember things either. All the debris from the storms had been swept away. This one could heal too.

And Eames wanted to fix what he'd done. Wanted to fix the two of them because they'd both been a little broken since before they met, but now it was all getting worse and he knew that he was the catalyst. Or rather, Curiosity was, with her silver-painted smile and beckoning hands, when she'd led him into that warehouse to slip into Arthur's dreams to be killed by the twin brother who wasn't supposed to exist anymore.

He wanted to go back to where they'd been, where Arthur wasn't always the point man in his sharp suits with sharp eyes and sharp edges _(It's a defense mechanism, Eames knows. It's the reason Arthur hasn't fallen apart. But this Point Man is too sharply edged. He's hurting himself because he's holding his secrets closer than they need to be.)_

He wanted to go back to when Arthur wasn't always in his suits, when he wore jeans and would get annoyed at his curls. When he swore creatively when he hit his shin against furniture in the dark. When he could still be somewhat Cameron, could still sit and enjoy a glass of wine on a balcony.

And Eames could be more than the Forger, which was what he'd fallen into being because the Forger was safe. The Forger made it easy to forget things like spirited Hellcats and their unashamed laughter and the dancing in a small, shared apartment. He could go back to being Eames, the one who loved a daughter who he didn't know, who missed a wife he no longer had. One who could make breakfast and get annoyed when his spices were out of order—sometimes, he swore Arthur did it just to mess with him.

He missed being themselves.

**Eames' poker chip isn't a totem.**

Its edges were worn, the colors a little faded, the name of a Vegas casino hardly visible anymore. Then again, it's been a long time. A long time since they first escaped the military and, rather than leaving the country as most would have been expected to do, they drove. Drove out through the endless flats of the Midwest and right past the Grand Canyon until they turned into Las Vegas.

After all, people disappear there all the time, whether forever or for a few days. Where else would they go?

Arthur had known about Eames' gambling. Everyone in the dreamshare program had. So he would slip through the casino, a polite shadow, keeping an eye out for any government agents while Eames gambled whatever money he had away.

"Thought you would stop me," Eames said later when they're on the elevator. "Since you're such a stick in the mud."

Arthur gave him a look. "You're an adult, you speak English, you have your own money. You can do anything you want."

Eames tilted a smirk at Arthur, eyeing him up and down. "Anything?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, but Eames caught the tips of his ears pinking. "So long as it's not with me."

"That's cold. I thought we had something special."

"That's because you're delusional and have had one too many drinks, Mr. Eames."

They were sharing a room—the first of many. Money was hard to come by when you're new to the criminal life—though that didn't last long. Government agents were soon searching the building after being tipped off that they were there and they'd had to go out through a side door and into the brightly lit streets of Las Vegas, stolen PASIV in hand. But not before Eames—with his almost kleptomaniac habits—had snatched a chip from one of the tables.

Arthur gunned their stolen car down the stretch of open desert road until he felt they were a sufficient distance away before he slowed down a little. "Why did you take that?"

Eames glanced at him before looking thoughtfully at the poker chip he was flipping along his knuckles. "…Call it proof."

"Proof? Of what?"

"That we're a good team. Not just anyone can escape from government agents, you know. And besides, I wanted a souvenir."

"You're too sentimental, Eames."

"And you have an ice block where your heart's supposed to be, darling."

"Don't call me that."

The pet name had slipped out, the first time it ever had. The only other person Eames had called 'darling' was his wife and daughter. He smiled to himself and settled back in his seat; maybe this was what people called a sign.

_(A few months later, word will get around of a new way to keep track of reality, found by a woman in Paris. A totem, she calls it. Arthur will read the news out loud to Eames, who's brushing his teeth and say, "…What do you think of Paris in the summer?" And Eames would reply, "Sounds wonderful." while thinking of the poker chip he's taken to keeping in his pocket. )_

**Eames makes good on his promises.**

Arthur pressed his face further into the pillow. He was an early riser, a habit leftover from his mother, who always went into work several hours before she needed to and her children, who attended the same school as she did, would go with her. But this was early even for him.

"Eames…" The threat is there, even in a sleep-drowsed voice.

Familiar lips brush against his neck, his jaw. "Darling, it's Christmas."

Despite himself, Arthur was wakening to Eames' presence, as familiar to him as his own shadow. "I thought th' point of Christmas was to sleep in," he said, tilting his head so he could look at his lover.

"How very…lazy of you."

Arthur rolled onto his back to look at Eames properly. "What are you doing awake anyway? It's—"

"Three in the morning? I'm aware."

"Uh-huh. Tell me you weren't woken by a sudden epiphany."

"That's redundant. Epiphanies, by definition, are sudden."

"'S too early for this."

"C'mon, darling. It's Christmas."

"So you've said." But Arthur allowed himself to be tugged out of bed, hissing when his feet hit the cold floor. "It's like you're six years old."

When they got to the living room, Arthur sat himself cross-legged on the couch, wiping the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. Eames ducked beneath their mini-tree—not even an exaggeration. The tree was perhaps the length of Arthur's hands put together—and pulled something out. He placed the badly wrapped present in Arthur's lap before sitting beside him.

Arthur unwrapped the present and blinked at the dark blue, fuzzy socks. _Very_ fuzzy. "You were serious."

"Of course I was." A teasing smile played around Eames' lips. "You're lucky I didn't get them in the highlighter shades. I thought about it though."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur used to be religious.

* * *

 

_There are couples a matchmaker would match every time - and couples who, for no rhyme or reason, rhyme.  
~Robert Brault_

* * *

**Arthur knows an array of languages.**

Eames shot upright in bed, hand fumbling for a gun, when he heard the bang that resounded through the apartment. It took another moment for him to register that Arthur wasn't beside him in the bed, though the sheets were still a little warm, so he couldn't have been gone long and that Arthur wasn't the type to wait to ask questions of aggressive intruders and therefore would have shot first and Eames didn't hear any gunshots, so his instincts were simply acting up again.

Then he heard Arthur.

He couldn't understand half of what he was saying, but from the half he could understand and the tone, Arthur wasn't happy. Eames had to marvel at the creativity of the curses even as he threw the covers back and made his way to their source.

Arthur was on the floor of the bathroom, in between the tub and the toilet, naked and wet and holding his left shin with curses still spilling from his mouth; Eames understood the French and English ones, could figure out the Spanish and puzzle through Portuguese, but there were still other languages in that stream of words that Eames couldn't even identify.

"Are you alright, darling?" Eames wanted to laugh a little; he hadn't known Arthur could swear like that and the discovery was slightly thrilling.

Arthur looked up at him, grimacing as he removed his hands from his shin to check the damage. There was going to be a spectacular bruise there in a little bit. "I slipped getting out of the tub and hit my leg on the edge."

This time, Eames couldn't stop the smile coming to his face. Arthur wasn't a clumsy person. He rather liked the reminder that Arthur was as human as the rest of the world. He grabbed the towel where Arthur had left it on the counter and offered his lover a hand up. Arthur took the hand and pulled himself to his feet, wincing a little as he put too much weight on that leg.

"How is it," Eames began conversationally as he wrapped the towel around Arthur's hips. "That I've seen you when you've been shot, stabbed and have had broken bones and I've never heard you curse like that before?"

Arthur shrugged. "One of those things." Like how discovering a papercut when you used hand sanitizer made you _wish_ that you'd been stabbed.

Eames simply chuckled and kissed him lightly. "You're lucky I'm not trigger-happy."

Arthur arched an eyebrow at him. "Did you actually manage to find a gun when you woke up? You're usually very sleepy until you've had your tea."

"It was on your side of the bed, so no, I didn't. But that isn't the point."

"And what is?" Arthur asked, moving away from Eames so he could continue with his morning ritual.

"How many languages are you actually fluent in?" Eames didn't know why it was important—it probably wasn't—but it felt like it should be.

Arthur paused to think about it as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "Three."

"I heard a lot more than three."

"You asked for fluency. Curses are what people usually learn first in a new language. That, and how to ask for directions."

"And because you _never_ get lost, you had to learn the curses first."

Arthur smirked at him in the mirror. "Exactly."

**Arthur writes notes in the margins.**

It was something that took Eames a long time to notice, for he and Arthur generally owned the same books, so they would simply read their own copies and if they had that sudden urge to read a book they saw in a shop window, they didn't worry about if the other had a copy. They simply bought it.

 _(Eames remembers times when he couldn't afford books. When he used to stare jealously at the college and secondary school students coming out of the bookstore. It's what first made his fingers itch with the_ want _to steal rather than the necessity. And he remembers running four blocks with his first stolen book and, when he got his breath back, he remembers sitting on the steps of a church and reading by streetlight)_

Eames had gotten an offer for a job, one he had to catch the next flight to Singapore for, so he snatched a book up for the plane ride—because God knew that long flights were mind-numbingly dull. He hadn't realized he'd grabbed one of Arthur's books.

It took him a moment to recognize the neat handwriting scrawled in the margins of the book. It was one Eames had read before— _("You_ would _be the type to reread your books," a younger Arthur says, rolling his eyes. Eames just smirks at him because he knows that Arthur's that type too)_ —so he as he reread the familiar words, he also read Arthur's writing. It was generally comments on ideas, sometimes, he'd underline a phrase he particularly liked. It was interesting, this peek into Arthur's head—and wasn't that an ironic turn of phrase for someone in their line of work?

Eames charmed a pen off a flight attendant and began his own set of scribblings in the margins in response.

**Arthur is an expert at compartmentalizing.**

His stomach is still roiling and he feels the urge to throw up again, but he knows that there's nothing left in his stomach. He looks up when the bathroom door opens and wonders why Arthur is always finding him in these situations.

Arthur squints as his eyes become accustomed to the lights after hours of sleep. "Eames?" He makes his name a question even as he steps closer, pajama pants low on his hips. Eames flushes the toilet, trying to keep thoughts out of his head.

Eames has to clear his throat a few times to find his voice. "Yes, darling?"

Arthur's eyes flit over the situation and Eames can almost see the gears turning before the younger man turns and leaves the room, returning a minute later with a mug of water. "Something you ate?" he asks, but Eames knows that Arthur has figured out that that isn't the case; Arthur has always been good about being careful around the lines they drew with each other.

Eames accepts the mug gratefully and takes a few sips. Arthur sits cross-legged on the floor, not impatient. Eames finishes off the mug and sets it on the ground. He waits to see if his stomach will rebel again, but it seems to have calmed—for now—so he scoots back until he can lean his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as the memories of their most recent job rear up like an oily wave.

A company had needed to go inside a man's mind to find information on the people he'd hurt—he'd been part of the mob at one point, but was now working for a rival company. The mob connection alone would be enough to put him away, but the things he'd done was enough to get him sent to prison for several lifetimes. Even though Arthur was acting as both architect and point man for this job—Dom was back with his kids and neither of them could ask Ariadne to do a job like this. She was still too green, too young for this—and his dreams were generally fairly comfortable for Eames _(He wouldn't think of Arthur James Reynolds in the mirror, wouldn't think of arrogant smiles and brotherly protectiveness)_ the man's mere presence in the dream had been enough to slick the streets and make it feel wrong.

"…I keep seeing the things he's done, Arthur," Eames finally confesses. Arthur moves to sit beside him, a line of warm touch from their shoulders down to their elbows.

Arthur doesn't say anything. He looks pale in this light, with his scars standing out in stark contrast. Eames knows his scars, knows their texture on his lips and their locations _(Eames didn't know their origins. Not all of them. But he didn't have to, really)._

"I keep imagining him doing those things to Sheral, or to Amara." And that had been when his stomach had given out on him. He keeps feeling the urge to go back to England to see them, to double and triple check that they're alright. "…Say something."

"I don't know what to say," Arthur tells him honestly.

"You're saying that what you saw didn't affect you at all?"

"You're assuming things. Of course it affected me." Arthur's lips tilt slightly in a shard of a smile. "But you're better at dealing with these things than I am. I just don't think about them and wait until I can deal with them."

Arthur has a hard center, Eames knows. He's always known that. _(He didn't know just how much, didn't know that it took a bit for Arthur to feel the horror of what, exactly, had happened to his brother. At first, he didn't register the fact that half of his brother was missing. He'd just concentrated on the fact that Arthur James Reynolds had been laughing—something beautiful to behold with the sun at one of those perfect, surreal angles—at something, though Arthur could no longer remember at what specifically and that, at that moment, he wasn't. He wasn't laughing or smiling or talking or_ breathing _and that meant that he was dead and his brother couldn't be_ dead _)_ That hard center allows Arthur to deal with things in pieces, to break it down with that incredible logic of his and not fall apart.

Eames tilts his head to look at Arthur. There are signs that the last job had bothered him—dark smudges were beginning to appear beneath his eyes and his skin seemed too tight—but that also happened when he worked too hard for too long, as he was wont to do.

Eames tries for a teasing smile, but he's sure it comes out something more like a grimace. "You're living up to your nickname of 'cold bastard', darling."

Arthur lets out a breath that might have been intended as a chuckle. "You know me. I hate to disappoint people." He pauses. "…Do you want to get out of here?"

It takes a moment for the question to register. Arthur isn't a generally restless man. _(But Eames was and no one knew Eames better than Arthur)_ Eames feels the walls of even this comfortable apartment—their apartment, with its familiar corners and furniture and colors—shrink on them and he feels the itch in his bones to _leave._ "Absolutely."

**Arthur used to be religious.  
**

He finds them by accident. He's actually looking for some clean socks and Arthur's been away on a job and he really has to do laundry, so he's digging in the back of the sock drawer, unable to see and having to rely on his fingertips. He sighs when he doesn't find socks—he hates doing laundry—but he feels something distinctly not made of cloth.

Eames pulls out the chains, thin and silver. There are two, with a small cross hanging from each one. Both are identical save for the letters engraved on the back. One reads AJR and the other CR. It doesn't take him more than a few seconds to figure out who they belong to. He doesn't remember seeing either of the crosses on Arthur at any point in their history. He doesn't even remember seeing the chain around his neck. The only kinds of things that could ever count as jewelry on Arthur are a watch and his ever-present dog tags.

_(Eames both can and can't imagine Arthur praying. Arthur doesn't ask for help from on high; he fixes his problems himself or deals with the consequences. But Cameron…perhaps Cameron had prayed. Perhaps he prayed when he and his brother first shipped out or when they first heard the bombs exploding. Perhaps the last time Cameron prayed was when he was staring at his brother's dead body)_

Eames puts them back in the drawer and resigns himself to doing laundry. One day, he might just ask Arthur about those crosses.


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

_"What could you make of that, except to suspet some intensitty in his conception of the affair that couldn't be measured?"  
-The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

**Eames doesn't always have his totem on him.**

The first time Eames did it, Arthur had paused, hovering over the other man as he laid the unhooked chain on the bedside table. "Eames…" he began, unsure of where he's going with this.

"Darling," the other man interrupted. "You think too much."

Arthur thought about arguing, but then he thought about it again. He'd never seen the locket—Eames' true token—not on his person. The poker chip, he'd seen lying around, but not the locket. So when he thought about it, he knew that Eames was a person who showed some things better than they could tell them, so he let Eames pull him down without a fuss.

He wasn't as surprised after that and Eames didn't do it often, but he always found it strange to wake up and look over at Eames to find his neck bare. Those mornings, Arthur had to check his own totem and, assured of reality, he would stay where he was, whether he went to back to sleep or not because if Eames without his totem woke to an empty other half of the bed, things might not turn out so well.

_(In truth, he's a bit touched—and mostly surprised—that Eames trusts him that much as to allow himself to be without his foothold on reality. He also knows that he can't return the favor. He trusts Eames as much as he trusts anyone, moreso in most cases in fact, but he can't remove the dog tags from around his neck. Not for anyone.)_

**Eames is realistic in his imaginings.**

Arthur woke fully to the sound of Eames' laughter. He'd woken a little when he felt familiar fingers running through his hair, but he'd dozed back off. Now, he blinked a little blearily up at Eames.

"What's funny?" he asked, not lifting his head from the pillow. It was a rare day that Eames was awake before him.

Eames smiled warmly, fingers still threaded in Arthur's hair. "You have grey hairs, darling."

The thought itself is strange in the way it sounded when Arthur repeated it to himself in his mind. Grey hairs? Surely he hadn't been alive long enough to earn those. He was only…God, he was turning forty in two years. He'd known it all logically, but in terms of time, he hadn't understood.

"Why's that funny?" Arthur wasn't upset. Not really. People were supposed to be when they got grey hairs, but to him, it was just like someone had told him an interesting fact. A 'huh' of interest moment.

_(He thinks of Mina, if she had grey hairs yet. She's younger, but people go grey at different ages. She'd gotten married nine years ago to a junior high math teacher from Wisconsin named Jason Bishop and they had a kid. A boy named Arthur—and doesn't that sting a little, even after all this time—who has his mother's fiery disposition and sharp tongue and his father's looks. He thinks of Arthur James Reynolds, who never got a chance to worry about turning thirty or getting grey hairs. Would Arthur James Reynolds have gotten the grey hairs first? Probably not. He'd been a more carefree soul than his twin. But they might have laughed over it, might have teased each other and made a bucket list, just because they could. The thoughts still hurt.)_

"Think about it. Did you ever think we'd actually live this long? Because I didn't." Eames' free hand skims Arthur's scarred side quickly before moving to the numerous other scars—all less noticeable and less severe—that had been accumulated.

Arthur hadn't. It had been some unspoken agreement between him and Eames; they were in it for the long run, but the long run wouldn't be that long. Their line of work was dangerous at best. People didn't last long. They were probably the people who'd been in dreamwork the longest now, since Miles had retired and Mal was…well. Almost twenty years devoted to it.

_(Arthur tries leaving once, when he's thirty-four. He tries living a normal life from his apartment. He visits James and Phillipa—they're adults in their own right now. Philippa's in college and James is graduating high school—and walks the streets of the city. But he can't take the die out of his pocket, the red, loaded die. It's there, a familiar, worn weight. What do normal people do?_

_He visits New York to spend time with his sister, who's smile is a slow curl of memory and who's a museum curator now, and her husband and his niece, who's got eyes that are Emerald-City green. His nephew is in school at that point and he avoids seeing him. He stops by Vermont, drops in on his mother._

_He lasts a week and three days._

_He can't leave the dream-life. It's part of who he is. It's an integral part of Arthur. So the next time Eames calls him, Arthur asks if he knows anyone who needs a point man. And he can hear Eames' grin over the line. "Welcome back, darling.")_

"I suppose not."

"That's what's funny. It's ironic that we're the ones still here." Out of all of their friends and work associates, they were the only ones to stick with the job this long. Others had left, for family or personal reasons, and others had died. _(Eames has more tattoos now, ones that stretch and curl down his shoulders to beneath his shoulder blades, some farther down his arms, though they never touch his forearms. There is still a blank spot among all the ink, right above his heart and Arthur stops his thoughts there because he doesn't want to think about when that spot gets filled in)_

Eames leaned closer, brushings his lips against Arthur's. He tasted of smoke and morning breath and last night's mint toothpaste and it feels horribly domestic. Arthur could feel his smile. "You're getting old, darling," he teased.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Oh really?" He brushed a thumb against the creases along the corners of Eames' eyes, familiarly gray, and at the faint lines along his face, from sorrow and laughter both. "And what are these, old man?"

Eames laughed, close enough to Arthur that he felt it vibrating on his skin. "Touché."

**Eames met Mal before he knew about dreamwork.**

Mal was the one to tell him the story. "I warn you now, it sounds like we're part of a bad movie with Journey as the soundtrack," she'd laughed.

Arthur had smiled. "Did you meet on a train at midnight?"

"No, but it didn't take long for it to be midnight. He sat across from me at dinner because there were no other empty tables."

Arthur listened to her story, strangely fascinated. He knew nothing of Eames as he'd been Before the military. He listened as she told him that Eames had told her that he had been on his way into Dublin from Sligo to help his cousin set up his bar and she'd been in Lisburn staying with a friend for a few weeks. He listened when she told him of how he'd been charming and how his hair had been a bit longer then and he'd been clean-shaven for the most part and how, when she asked about his family, he'd proudly pulled out his wallet to show her a photograph of Sherallyn and Amara, nearly ten months old at the time.

_(It's a strange picture, but Arthur likes it. Likes the glimpse into a different man, less broken, less hurt, less haunted.)_

Once, they were on the same train themselves in the reverse, out of Dublin into Lisburn. It had been just after a job and they decided to lie low before getting out of the country. Arthur remembered eating with Eames and Eames' eyes had kept wandering to the same spot across the car. Arthur had decided not to mention it. Everyone was entitled to secrets. _(Dom isn't the only one haunted by Mal's ghost, after all.)_

**Arthur James Reynolds still haunts Eames' nightmares.**

Dreams and nightmares are two different things; anyone in the dream business will tell you that. Since they'd first had to share a bed, years and years ago when they were younger, they'd accepted that the other came with their own baggage.

_(Eames knew that from the beginning. He saw the raw scars splattered across Arthur's side. No one wasn't traumatized by whatever had caused it)_

Arthur lashes out in the midst of a nightmare. He's caught Eames more than once and Eames had woken bruised for it. Once, Eames tried holding him down, but that had only made Arthur react more violently. These days, Eames doesn't even try to wake him; Arthur's talent for keeping a dream stable apparently works in his own mind, on his own nightmares. _(It's a terrifying thought, never being able to wake up until the nightmare had run its course)_

When Eames has a nightmare, he shrinks a bit into himself, but Arthur's tried to help him out of it before and gotten almost tossed off the bed and a bruised gut for his trouble. So now, when he wakes because of his soldier's sense—still there after all these years and it goes off like a buzzing hornet's nest—he manages to convince himself to stay awake, sometimes having to maneuver his way out of Eames' arms to do so, and lean against the headboard until Eames wakes on his own.

When Eames does wake, sometimes he doesn't know where he is _(Arthur hated that feeling, knew it all too well because sometimes, he looks around, not even after waking up, and doesn't know where he is. Those times, he reaches for his dog tags and the die that he always keeps nearby—the die is just a precaution, a distraction for the outside world, though it still functions as a totem. But his tags, those are absolutely his and are always his anchor—and have to carefully retrace his steps to know how he got to where his was at that moment)_

Eames will open his eyes and his entire body tenses, hand reaching beneath his pillow, which makes Arthur relax a little because if Eames reached underneath Arthur's pillow, he wouldn't find a totem. He'd find a gun. Arthur looks away while Eames convinces himself this isn't a dream. He knows how the poker chips works, knows that looking inside his locket works better for Eames than the chip does, but—to Arthur—reaffirming reality is a private experience.

After that, Eames gets up, slowly, onto his elbows, eyes following the lines of Arthur's body up to his face and, most of the time, he'll smile a little and wish him good morning. But sometimes, he'll go pale and he'll tense up again.

"…Arthur?" he asks tentatively.

Those times, Arthur leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead and another light one to his lips. "It's me," he'll reassure him, though he doesn't know that his actions reassure Eames more than his words.

_(Eames could still see him, tanned and sharp-edged in the desert heat. A smile as sharp as his brother's suits—one that didn't belong on that oh-so-familiar face—before Arthur James Reynolds neared, sometimes strolling closer like a man on a walk around the park and other times, a predatory movement. Once—and only once—it was too-close to seductive and that time, when Eames woke up, he hadn't dared look up at Arthur, had kept his eyes closed and his face in the pillow for about five minutes, reaffirming where he was and trying to convince himself that nightmares weren't real because once Arthur James Reynolds comes up to him in a nightmare, the same thing happens. The world shatters into a hundred thousand mirror shards and Eames watches himself die by that familiar face in a hundred thousand ways, a hundred thousand times)_

So when Arthur bends down to kiss him, he knows he's in reality because Arthur James Reynolds' ghost in his mind doesn't do gentle or tender. And, once, he'd thought the same of Arthur.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur was too good at his job.

 

* * *

_Friends can be said to "fall in like" with as profound a thud as romantic partners fall in love.  
~Letty Cottin Pogrebin_

* * *

**Arthur was _too good_ at his job.**

Eames finds out by accident. It's early in their relationship—their friendship one. They've been working together for roughly a year and a half and they're several years from anything romantic—and he starts looking for information on Arthur the Point Man.

_(He never thought to ask. Theirs was a relationship—in all of its incarnations—of secrets.)_

He finds nothing on Vermont, finds nothing on the dead twin brother _(The one who will later haunt his mind from beyond a looking glass, familiar face twisted in rage as a knife flickers towards him)_. He finds nothing on the sharp-sweet sister of his who has a temper beneath surface.

He does manage to find his military record—not as easy as it sounds when one's name is Arthur, common, but not too common, and without a last name. There's very little in his military record; notes on his injuries, on his recovery and therapy, his aptitude tests—not quite off the charts, but close enough—and he has to dig to find out more information. He wants to know, after almost two years, why Arthur came to him to steal the PASIV. He knows that Arthur knew of his skills because Arthur has observational skills of his own, but he wants to know why so suddenly, why so quickly to steal and leave. Arthur does nothing without a reason after all.

He has to call in a favor and promise two of his own as well as do some extra digging in order to find out that the military had been planning on killing Arthur.

_(It made sense, Eames reasoned. They were the ones who trained him, the ones who taught him dream stability in the face of pain and torture. He'd been out of commission as far as dreamwork was involved long enough to learn the workings of the PASIV, to learn the precise effects of somancin. He'd become too good at what they taught him, had become a potential threat should he ever leave the military. And the military didn't deal well with threats.)_

The next time he sees Arthur—three days because they split up after a job and, as of now, they don't have a much better team put together other than adding on Mal—he watches for it. He's always known that Arthur was dangerous, unpredictable even, despite all rumors to the contrary. But now that he's seeing, he sees the deadliness, sees that threat. Arthur was born for dreamwork, had taken to it like fish to water. He sees the efficiency in motion, the details that he works through in order to make sure a job goes smooth. And he sees no difference from what he's always seen.

**Arthur was a good guy once, and wanted to stay one.**

When Arthur first mentioned it, offhand, as he quickly sketched in his own ideas for the level, Eames leaned back in his chair and said, "You would be wasted as a cop, darling."

Arthur didn't look up, intent on his work. "And I suppose you're an authority on policemen too?"

"Well…" Eames had been chased policemen and spent more time in an overnight cell growing up than was probably necessary, or normal. That had been before he learned how to run from the law properly. "An unofficial one, you could say."

A snort of amusement. "That doesn't surprise me."

The silence between them stretches, not uncomfortable for they had long ago grown accustomed to each other's presence, but palpable. Eames played with a highlighter in his hands, letting it flip across his knuckles as he listened to the even scratching of the pencil in Arthur's hand.

"…Why a policeman?" Eames asked finally. He'd been serious with his earlier comment; Arthur's skill and talent would have been wasted on the streets or in a patrol car after Iraq if he hadn't been picked up by the dream program. He could have made detective easily, perhaps, but Eames doubted that that would have been enough. There was something in Arthur that needed the excitement, the adventure, needed more than what the ordinary world could give him.

_(Eames thinks of the boy in the photo, paintball gun in hand, streaks of paint in his curls and on his coveralls. The one that still knew how to smile like that, the one who wears a silver cross around his neck. That boy could have become a policeman, could have caught the bad guys and not become one)_

Something flickered behind the familiarly brown eyes, something that let Eames know that there was a line he was beginning to toe. It's been a little over eight years since they left the military and Eames hadn't pried as much as he could have. But he had crossed his share of Arthur's mental and emotional lines and Arthur had shoved him right back across, never one to back down.

"Arthur?" Eames asked after another stretch of silence. Arthur didn't always answer a question, but he always responded.

Arthur blinked up at him, his hand stuttering. Arthur wasn't ambidextrous, though he liked to challenge himself to do things with his left hand, so he could use it more dexterously than most. The sketch is rough and it would never win an award, but it was clear and it was a representation of not only what Arthur wanted, but of his mindset.

The level—which had begun clean and smooth—started as an intricate pattern that Eames could very easily picture as the streets of a city like Venice _(Arthur is like Venice, Eames decides then. A unique old-soul with its own share of secrets)_ but quickly morph into shaky lines that stutter straight and into rigid, orderly grids that spiral downwards because, even years later, Arthur was still military-precise and he still loved his paradoxes.

"Did you say something?"

Eames repeated his question and thought that this line must be a doozy to distract Arthur like this.

Arthur didn't speak right away, didn't speak for long enough that Eames thought he wouldn't be getting an answer. And Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to change his mind halfway through about what he was going to say.

"Focus on the job, Mr. Eames."

_(After the job, after they split up and find each other months later, just to be on the safe side, Arthur will sit across from Eames after ordering a paella for two. He won't say much until the food comes and Eames will find it strange because Arthur has very different silences and this is one he hasn't heard before. After the food comes, Arthur will scoop his share of the paella onto his plate and take a few bites before telling Eames his answer)_

**There are still some people who remember Arthur as Cameron.**

It's an entire accident and Eames only heard about it later. He hadn't known whether to laugh or not when he did.

Arthur had been in San Francisco when someone called what-was-no-longer-his-name. He'd turned instinctively—Cameron wasn't a common enough name to simply let it go and he hadn't stayed alive this long because he believed in coincidences.

The person calling him jogged up to meet him. He was darkly tanned and his brown hair was cut a little longer than military-short. His shoulders were broad and his muscular form showed through the tank top worn underneath the white short sleeve button shirt.

"Cameron? Cameron Reynolds?"

Arthur's instincts seized him and he wanted to go for a gun, wanted to drag this man to an alley and find out why he knew his old name.

The man smiled wide. "You don't remember me? I'm Danny Driscoll."

The name rung a bell and it took Arthur a moment to recognize him. It took Arthur another moment to sound more like the person Danny remembered. "Jesus—Danny, I almost didn't recognize you."

It had been almost five years, after all.

Danny shook Arthur's hand vigorously. "Can't say the same for you, Cameron—you haven't changed a bit since the Marines. At least, as far as you look. What's up with the suit?"

Arthur could come up with a cover story in about two seconds flat. Eames had timed him once, during a nightmarish traffic jam in Chicago. "On my way to a business meeting, actually."

"A business meeting? No shit. You went to school and everything?"

Arthur shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. He felt the die's familiar edges, rolling it in his palm. "What can I say? The government footed the bill."

"Where'd you go to school at?"

"University of Pennsylvania. Class of 2003."

"You graduated damn early, didn't you?" Danny's eyes went softer and harder at the same time, a soldier's eyes. "…I never got a chance to tell you I'm sorry. Bout your brother. You left real quick after…what happened."

Arthur's hand tightened around the die. "It's fine."

"He was a good guy."

"He was." Arthur shut down on the thoughts of Arthur James Reynolds and the conversations they had in his mind. "Listen, I gotta go. I can't miss this meeting."

"Sure, no problem. Call me later, maybe we can get a few drinks, catch up."

Arthur forcefully tugged his facial muscles into an appropriate smile. "Alright. Sounds good. See you."

When Arthur told Eames a few days later, Eames said, "Does that mean you have to kill him now for knowing your secret identity?" It's said with a slight curve to his lips and a teasing tone, but he's utterly serious.

Arthur was quiet for a moment before he looked over, smirk curling up. "You're not dead, are you?"

Eames chuckled. "Well, I figure it's only a matter of time before you're unable to resist my alluring charm and snap, darling."

**Arthur isn't good at letting people go.**

Eames is wary, when he sees him pushing himself to his feet on the shore. He's not in a suit; he's in a cracked old brown leather jacket that he bought back when they were first on the run together to better blend in over a well-faded Def Leppard shirt that he likes to wear around the apartment and a pair of jeans that aren't quite new anymore, their dark color fading.

This isn't the point man, or the survivor or even the runaway soldier; this is just Arthur.

Or so it wants Eames to think.

It finds Eames embarrassingly quickly, high on a grassy cliff on a porch bannister. It stands a good eight feet away, arms spread to show empty hands, the motion lifting the jacket so that Eames can see the lack of weapons when it turns around.

It takes three steps closer before it stops, eyes calculating. "…Do you know who I am?"

"I know who you want me to think you are."

"This isn't a trick of your mind, Eames. I came to get you."

The shadows flicker across its face and Eames catches glints of poisonous green in those eyes and he thinks of mirrorsquicksilverknives and brothersmemoriesexplosions and the world surges, earth shaking beneath its feet, waves building and crashing and poisonous green thunder flashing in sharp-suit-black skies.

"Eames." He looks back at it that's doing nothing but standing there, watching him with steady eyes that flash coffee-brown and Emerald-City-green in a face frozen in a photograph. "I'm not leaving."

And he wants to believe it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames didn't want to try inception. Not again.

* * *

_  
_   


_"But oh! the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly on any subject; with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away."  
~Dinah Craik, _A Life for a Life_ , 1859_

* * *

**Eames has romantic tendencies.**

They're waiting for the mark in a train and Eames is resting his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest by the window. Arthur sits across from him, PASIV at his feet and a worn paperback in hand, but he's probably keeping a mental tally of how much farther until they reach the mark's stop.

"Arthur." The point man glances up. "…Come on a date with me?"

Arthur blinks and waits for a moment, probably making sure he heard Eames right. Assured of his auditory accuracy, he says, "You are aware that we've been sleeping together for almost a year now?"

"Yes, darling."

"And that we've been living together for longer than that?" Unofficially and because of necessity, most of the time, but the principle is there.

"Yes, darling," Eames says patiently.

"And you want to go on a date now?"

"Well, not right now. We're on a job, aren't we? Afterwards, as a celebration?"

Arthur's lips curls in a slight smirk. "Are you so confident that we'll have something to celebrate?"

"Come now, this is a milk run for us."

"From what we know," Arthur corrects and Eames remembers that there is a very good reason why Arthur has kept himself alive this long. "We can't ever assume we know everything."

"That doesn't change what I'm asking."

"…Sure, Eames. As a celebration."

_(They never got to go on that date. The job goes sideways quickly thanks to another extraction team—a proper one, not with a forger and a point man trying to fill in all the positions with two people—and they ended up having to disappear to get away from the aftermath. Eames ran to Switzerland and Arthur to Panama. They didn't see each other for four months after that._

_Eames didn't ask to go on a date again. He declared it jinxed)_

**Eames didn't want to try inception. Not again.**

It's been a little over than a year since they've seen each other and Mallorie Cobb has been dead for almost two years now. They'd broken apart because their lines are all out of order, pick-up sticks scattered across the ground. Now, looking at Arthur who doesn't look much different than he had a year ago save for looking more tired and there are a few faint lines on a face too young for them that Eames is sure that he's the only one who notices.

He's standing with a young woman—a lovely thing really, petite and dark-haired and standing a little too close to Arthur to be only friends—in a waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up, working together with her on the level. His shirt is buttoned entirely up to the point where the dog tags are hidden entirely and Eames can see the faint outline of a gun at the small of his back.

He looks up at the sound of the door—paranoid as ever, is Arthur—and he shifts his weight back on his heels, slipping his hands into his pockets. _(Eames wondered if the die was there, that red die that Arthur had nicked years ago…"…not the only thief…")_ "Mr. Eames."

"Arthur, how wonderful to see you too, darling." Eames strolls closer and flashes a smile at the young woman. "And who is this lovely creature?"

"Mr. Eames, this is Ariadne, our new architect. Ariadne, Eames, a forger and a thief. Watch your pockets," Arthur warns and Eames doubts that she knows that Arthur can steal just as well as Eames can. "He'll steal your wallet and give it back when there's only petty cash left."

Ariadne glances between them, as if trying to find the joke—there is no joke, never has been. It's them, in the stark truth of it all—before she holds out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Delighted." Eames takes her hand and kisses it rather than shaking it and he can hear Yusuf and Arthur rolling their eyes.

* * *

 

"I tried to tell Dom not to get you," Arthur says as he puts his jacket on. The warehouse is emptying out and he and Eames are standing outside. "And I didn't think you'd actually agree. Not to inception."

"I almost didn't. You were right. Inception is impossible." _(They both knew that, had seen and felt the ramifications and it hurts in a bone-deep pain that doesn't go away. It's why they're standing here, a veritable chasm between them, when, in truth, it's only perhaps a foot and a half)_

"We need to make it possible, Eames. Those kids need their father."

"They need a father who's alive and sane," Eames agrees. "If Dom goes through with this, he might not end up as either."

Arthur opens his umbrella and allows Eames under it as they walk. It's hot summer rain and it's making the streets horribly humid. "I can get him out."

_(Of that, Eames had no doubt. Arthur's stability in his state of mind is uncanny and it carried over into other people's minds. Arthur had been the one to rescue him from his own mind, after all.)_

"What makes you think I'll let you?"

Arthur stops in the street and though Eames is a few inches taller, he doesn't feel like it with those eyes blazing at him. "You don't have the right to make that choice, Eames. If I have to, I'll drag you down there with me when I go look for him."

Eames nearly backs down after that—he refuses to mess with limbo, not after last time—but then he takes in the person in front of him and says, "You're not responsible for him. He's capable of taking care of himself now. It's been two years."

"You think so? Eames, have you _seen_ Dom? He's three steps away from jumping out his own damn window." Arthur lowers his voice and Eames has to lean a little closer to hear. "He can't control her anymore."

_(Quicksilver mirrors that shatter over an ocean and green eyes flashing knife-sharp…another me…hurt you...my daughter…)_

"What's she done?" Eames has heard of Mal's projection, but in vague concepts. Nothing concrete. But Arthur has only ever dealt in facts.

"She breaks into dreams, sabotages things."

Arthur's eyes are dark with memory and Eames knows to ask, "What did she do to you?"

"She shot me. Not to kill." It's strange to think how, in their world, shooting to kill is a good thing. As far as dreams go, at least.

"Dom won't listen to me, but he will to you. You can't let him do this job. It'll end up killing the lot of us."

"You think I haven't tried? Dom is out of control."

"And you're going to follow him anyway?"

Arthur leans back when he realizes that, for the past minute and a half, he and Eames have been sharing the same square inch of air. He looks the forger up and down and says, "Are you any better?"

**Eames is a strong swimmer.**

They're lying low—not hiding, exactly, but they've been a bit too active on the extraction front lately and the market needs to cool—in Puerto Rico for a few weeks. Eames rents a beachside house for them—Arthur rolls his eyes at the thought, but really, it's probably better than a hotel for a long term stay. Clients who didn't leave a hotel for several weeks draw too much attention.

Arthur calls Mal before they leave on the plane to tell her that they're going dark for a bit. He can hear Dom in the background, asking who it is. They've learned to be concerned if they don't hear from one of their people for too long.

Arthur wakes to find Eames gone from the shared bed. He's immediately wary, but when he sits up, gun in one hand and the other on his dog tags, tracing the edges of his brother's name etched in them, feeling the smoothed edges. Knowing that he is in reality and finding no danger, he lowers the gun and lets go of the tags. Arthur clicks on the bedside lamp and as he's getting up, his hand lands on a crinkled paper.

It's a note, written in Eames' childishly neat hand. _Gone out for a bit. 12:48AM_

Which means that Eames had slipped out from right beside Arthur without him noticing.

_(The survivor in Arthur bristled at the thought. Too close, he thought. This was getting too close)_

He thinks about going back to sleep, but when he wakes like that, clutching at his totem and his hand around the gun, he has trouble going back to sleep. He changes into khakis and pulls on a shirt, slips his shoes on and heads down to the beach.

He knows Eames and he knows how restless the forger gets and his fondness for in between places _(Places where the lines of the world blur. Foggy places, shorelines…)_ He expects to find Eames walking along the shore. Instead, Arthur finds Eames' phone tucked into his shoes on top of a towel just outside of the waterline.

Arthur looks out past the waves and barely sees Eames swimming in the darkness. He settles down in the sand and takes his phone out of his pocket. With a few taps on the screen, he pulls up an e-book. He's not fond of them, in truth. Dom is and has tried to get him to get into them as well, but Arthur is, according to Mal, a traditionalist. He won't deny that e-books are convenient though.

He's a chapter and a half in when he hears splashing much closer than before. He glances up and Eames is making his way out of the waves. Eames looks surprised to see him.

"I thought you'd still be sleeping."

Arthur puts his phone away and stands, brushing sand from the seat of his pants. "I didn't know you swam."

Eames starts toweling off. "Did it a lot as a kid." He smiles a little as he really takes Arthur in. "You really need to get a better idea of beach wear, darling."

"The world must be coming to an end when you tell me something like that."

Eames chuckles and Arthur feels it vibrating in the bit of space between them and suddenly Eames is too close _(He was always getting too damn close, crossing lines like they weren't even there)_. Eames kisses Arthur gently—he tastes like salt water touched with cigarettes—and says, "How does breakfast sound? I'm feeling eggs and bacon."

Another line skimmed. "It's two in the morning."

"And since when has that ever stopped either of us? Be spontaneous for once."

Arthur wants to be spontaneous when things are this close, wants to be spontaneous enough to get off this island—perhaps not even off it. He could go to the mountains in the center, towards the top perhaps, and find a place there to hide out until Eames stops looking for him.

_(But Eames won't stop looking. He was stubborn like that, Arthur knew.)_

**Eames' limbo is nightmarishly picturesque.**

When Arthur washes onto the shore of Eames' subconscious, it isn't the harsh sand that Mal described to him. This sand is fine and white and soft, like the sands of the Gulf of Mexico. He pushes himself up and steels himself because this likely wasn't going to be made easy.

The sand turns into grass the color made only in movies. It slopes into hills spattered with maple trees. _Flamboyan_ trees lean gracefully in the wind, their red flowers dancing like flames. Eames is fond of those trees, has been ever since they first went to the Caribbean.

There is a girl running down the hill, kite in hand. She is beautiful, blonde curls streaming behind her and her eyes are a very familiar shade of gray, like London skies. Her dress is orange, printed with yellow Hawaiian flowers, but there are splotches of red there, rusty red like old blood. When she sees Arthur, she pauses, tilting her head.

"Are you here to see my daddy?"

Arthur crouches so he's eye level with her. To see the girl from the locket is surreal. "Yeah, I am. He's a really good friend of mine."

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm." Arthur smiles, and would have been genuine if it weren't for the situation. Eames' daughter is the kind of kid that makes it easy to smile. "My name's Arthur. What's yours?"

"'Mara."

"Amara? That's a pretty name."

"Pretty name for a pretty girl. Least, tha's what my daddy says." But her voice hadn't sounded like a little girl's when she said it. It had sounded older, full of pain. _(Why hadn't Eames listened to him? Arthur told him that inception couldn't be a good idea, that Eames should at least wait until Arthur finished the job he was on to try it, but Eames said that the clients didn't want to wait. Eames should have told them no…Now he's trapped down here with his daughter that hasn't aged…)_

"Amara, can you take me to your daddy?"

Her eyes watch him warily. "My daddy doesn't like strangers."

"I'm not a stranger. I told you—he's a really good friend of mine. One of my best friends actually."

Her face brightened. "I have a best friend too!"

"Really? Can you tell me about them?"

"I can do it while I take you to daddy." She takes his hand and tugs him up. The entire way, she chatters, voice gently accented in a very familiar way, and Arthur is careful to make comments and show interest. But he's also careful in watching for anything that Eames might have hidden down here. In some places, he feels the very odd sensation of his shadow stretching, but when he turns to look at whatever it is, he doesn't see anything but his reflection in mirrors or a shop window or perhaps in a lake or river. Here, there isn't anything orderly, like what Mal told him they'd done to their limbo. Here, there is a favorite ice cream store or the park that was across from Arthur's apartment. Bridges in Venices that stretch across from tree to building. And no paradoxes whatsoever.

She leads him to a house, far up on the cliff. There are facets of the beach house from Puerto Rico like the hammock, the wraparound porch of the American South, wooden windchimes from Mombasa, a grape vine growing in the rafters and Arthur is willing to bet that the inside is a mixture of Eames' apartment in Nairobi and his own. Perhaps even some of his childhood home—whatever and wherever it might have been—or the apartment he'd shared with Sherallyn.

Amara leaves him at the bottom of the very long driveway and points. "My daddy's up there, but I wanna go back an' play."

Arthur smiles at her and says, "Alright. Thank you."

She beams and waves as she half runs, half skids down the hill. Arthur climbs the driveway and stops roughly eight feet away from the wraparound porch where Eames is leaning against its bannister.

Something about Eames is off, Arthur knows. He still has his loud shirt, but it's cut differently and he's clean-shaven. But it's more than that. It's something about the way his eyes are following Arthur's movements; they hadn't even moved like that when they'd first met in the Army. This is like Arthur's a threat.

Seeing that, Arthur spreads his arms, which lifts the back of his leather jacket up enough to expose the small of his back and he turns to display his lack of weapons. Not having been shot yet, Arthur takes three more steps forward before stopping and narrowing his eyes at Eames, who doesn't yet seem to recognize him.

"…Do you know who I am?"

"I know who you want me to think you are." Arthur has rarely heard Eames' voice like that, cold and angry.

"This isn't a trick of your mind, Eames. I came to get you."

Something makes Eames' hands twitch upwards in an abortive movement to clutch at his totem. The totem that contains the photo of his little girl that showed Arthur the way here, the totem that can't function as a totem when a person _wants_ to be trapped in dreams. Arthur feels the ground below them tremble and shake and the waves below the cliff grow and crash with terrible ferocity, the thunder roaring across the sky, lightning flashing green _(Poisonous green, the color of the grass in movies and sour apples and the color of his brother's eyes…)_

And that lightning, as well as the feeling of his shadow tugging and his reflection in so many places, lets Arthur know exactly what the problem is.

_("I've talked to him, y'know. Your brother. In your mind…")_

So Arthur plants his feet and stiffens his spine and tells him, "I'm not leaving."

"What makes you think you have a choice?"

"I'm not who you think I am, Eames. I'm not my brother." There are no lines in limbo to cross or not to cross. It's just them now, Arthur-and-Eames. Perhaps everything's been leading up to this, a rollercoaster of a relationship that's at its precipice.

"Funny. That's what you said last time." Eames comes down the steps in a way that's supposed to be casual, but isn't. Arthur sees the ocean change in his peripheral vision; it splinters and shatters into glass shards that crash and reflect Arthur back to himself thousands of times over, but it's never quite right _(Because it's not Arthur. It's his brother and Eames can't keep them apart anymore)_

"Eames, this is my first time ever here."

"Really?" It's drawled, long, slow and unbelieving.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

"I can't know that."

Arthur lets his temper off the leash a little. "Eames, you know how I found you? Your daughter. The little girl that's running around? The one who's fourteen now? You know that's not her. You know it's not supposed to be."

Arthur finds himself shoved against a tree. Eames has always been stronger than him, physically, but Arthur's always been the better fighter and Eames doesn't often solve problems through hand to hand violence. And Arthur's instincts rise immediately, his muscles tensing automatically to push back and fight.

But he doesn't. He just says, "Eames—"

"Stay away from my daughter." It's fierce and protective and his knuckles are digging deep into Arthur's collarbone and Arthur knows that Eames would have killed any boy to go near his daughter if he'd stayed with Sherallyn.

"Eames, she's just a projection. She's in your subconscious. Like Mal."

No lines. And because there are no lines, Arthur is not afraid to go there because before this, Mal-as-she-was has been a topic meant for wine-soaked nights.

It gets the desired effect. Eames flinches a little and Arthur wonders if, being down here, is like being stripped raw, down to the nerves. If everything hurts too much, too close. It hurts Arthur to mention her because it hasn't been so long since her funeral and he's seen how Dom can't quite seem to hold it together anymore, has seen Mal in the shadows of the dreams and he knows it can't be long before she bursts through and the dreams fall apart.

"And she led me here. To where you don't want my brother to be. The subconscious is based on emotion, not reason, so you trust me, whether you think you should or not."

Eames' walls are back up, eyes hard as stone. "No. I let you in and then you destroy everything. You've done it before."

 _(Arthur James Reynolds had a hold on Eames like Arthur could never have known. And had he known that allowing Eames—not even allowing. Arthur had never_ allowed _Eames close enough to see his own secret, his own Mal, trapped in his mind. Eames had come in uninvited—if he had known that they would be here, now, because Arthur sat in front of an air conditioning vent one day and told him that he was a twin, then Arthur would have split apart from Eames years ago, would have gone freelance on his own, would have left Eames to himself and perhaps they would have met up on jobs, but it wouldn't be this damn_ close _like it is now)_

"That wasn't me. I'm here to get you out of here, Eames. I'm here to take you back with me."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Because my brother wouldn't be telling you this!"

But Arthur knows something is off. He knows he's right; his brother _wouldn't_ do it. But the shade that haunts Eames' mind is not his brother. Not anymore. Arthur James Reynolds hadn't been a cruel man and Eames had never known Arthur James Reynolds in truth.

"He's right, you know."

Immediately, they both freeze and Arthur turns his head toward the voice that, these days, he only hears in his memories and his dreams. There, leaning out of one of the windows, smiling angelically was Arthur James Reynolds.

"This is going to sound really cliche, but," His smile curves wider, arrogant and mocking. "You look like you've seen a ghost."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is as much haunted by his brother as Eames is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The section 'Arthur has almost died in Eames' arms' was written by esking on ff.net and was added with their permission.

* * *

_  
_   


_"Do you think love just goes away? Pops out of existence when it becomes too painful or inconvenient, as if you never felt it? If only it did. If only it could be turned off. It's not a faucet. Love's a bloody river with level five rapids. Only a catastrophic act of nature or a dam has any chance of stopping it-and then, usually only succeeds in diverting it. Both measures are extreme and change the terrain so much you end up wondering why you bothered. No landmarks to gauge your position when it's done. Only way to survive is to devise new ways to map out life._  
You loved her yesterday, you love her today. And she did something that devastates you. You'll love her tomorrow."  
-Jericho Barrons **(Shadowfever by Karen Marie Moning)**  


* * *

**Arthur is too loyal.**

As soon as he hears Dom mention inception, he's prepared to say no. He's already tried it once and it didn't take—which he tells Dom later—but the price is more than he's willing to pay. But he is willing to tell Dom what he needs to know.

_(Don't do it. Too dangerous. Falling and never stopping…almost identical faces…quicksilver lies…)_

"It's perfectly possible. It's just bloody difficult."

"Interesting. Because Arthur keeps telling me it can't be done."

Eames pauses for a half a second before he forces himself to keep moving, acting like it doesn't affect him. "Arthur—you still working with that stick in the mud?"

_(He knew then and there that he'd have to take the damn job. He couldn't risk Arthur falling like he had. Not without him there to get him back out)_

"He is good at what he does."

"Oh, he's the best. But he's got no imagination."

"Not like you."

"Listen, if you're going to do inception, you _need_ imagination."

It's a last-ditch attempt, but he knows that it isn't going to work. Dom hasn't been the same since Mal died and this side of him is desperate to get back to his children, desperate to get home _(Eames wished he could be like that again)_ and he'll do anything to get there. And Arthur—too bloody loyal with his too damn big heart that managed to fit Dominic Cobb in there once and never let him back out—will follow him into inception, to the ends of the earth if need be to help him.

And Eames will go with him as well because someone needs to look out for Arthur because when Arthur's protecting someone, he goes to whatever lengths he has to and ignores his own needs.

So he runs interference for Dom and gets in the car.

**Arthur has almost died in Eames' arms.**

Everything was going to hell. Somehow they'd been found out and three men had smashed into the tiny foreclosed office where they'd dragged the mark. It was only by the grace of God—or whoever was up there looking out for them—that one of the men kicked the PASIV device off the table, yanking the IV out of Eames' arm and jolting him from the dream. In the two seconds it took him to regain his bearings, Eames' chair had been thrown onto its side, he himself sent sprawling into the corner.

He drew his gun as he straightened up, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Arthur had also awoken and was scrambling to his feet.

Eames would never be entirely sure how they'd even got out of the room, but the next thing he knew, his knuckles were bleeding and he was sprinting down a side street he didn't recognize with burning lungs and an empty gun holster

At last he stopped and had to lean against the wall to stop himself collapsing, his lungs itching. He should really stop smoking.

"You alright, darling?" he panted without opening his eyes. There was no answer. No sound at all but his own ragged breathing. "Arthur? Arthur!" The words came out in an urgent whisper, for fear that one of the bloodthirsty thugs had managed to follow him.

They could have gone in completely different directions, he told himself in an attempt at calm rationality. Except they were supposed to meet at the safe house if anything went wrong. Eames staggered to the end of the street to see the sign and found he was only a block away from it. Funny how the subconscious was so much more useful when one was awake.

Maybe Arthur was trying to lose a tail. Maybe he was already in the safe house. Arthur was, after all, the faster of the two of them.

And then he heard a strangled gasp of pain and he wished he didn't recognize it.

_(Eames has heard Arthur in pain before, and it isn't an event he enjoys repeating—though, with their lifestyle, it's very likely to happen again. Someone who didn't know him well wouldn't notice the difference. It comes with a kind of ice that's half-transparent crumbling walls, the last defense mechanism that strengthens a throat hoarse with horror, engulfed in sheer and utter misery. The ice with which he had spoken the day they learned that Mallorie Rousseau was dead.)_

This gasp was not quite the same, but Eames knew beyond a doubt that it was Arthur. Ignoring his legs' screams in protest, Eames rounded the corner at a run just in time to see one of the burly men from the office disappear onto the next street.

Eames was about to go after him, to squeeze the life from his meaty throat with his bare hands, if to accomplish nothing more than reduce the number of witnesses, but then he caught sight of Arthur. His long, deceivingly delicate fingers were dug into the cracks of the crumbling brick wall, and Eames could tell they were the only things holding him up. As Eames watched, frozen, Arthur let out another gasp and slid down against the wall.

"Damn it." In half a second, Eames was at Arthur's side. "Where is it?"

Arthur didn't need to ask what he meant. Feebly, he lifted his hand and dropped it onto his stomach. Eames pressed his own hand there and it came away dripping in hot blood.

It was nearly pitch dark in the shadow of the building, and he couldn't see a damn thing. In a way, he was rather grateful. If he couldn't see the wound, he could pretend it wasn't so bad, but he knew that there would be no convincing Arthur of that fact.

_(Eames doesn't want to see the full extent of the injuries, doesn't need to see Arthur painted in shades of sheet-white and too-much-red. He doesn't need any new nightmares)_

"Alright, cripple," he said, leaning down, pulling Arthur's arm around his shoulders and hoisting him to his feet, doing his best to ignore his muffled grunt of pain. He thought he felt Arthur grumble something—knowing the point man, it would likely be something about his not being a cripple—but Eames pretended not to hear. "Let's get you back to the safe house. You'll be fine."

That last block was the longest walk of Eames' life. For being so thin, Arthur was a dead weight. His feet dragged along behind him, scuffing his fancy shoes on the asphalt, and blood dripped down his pants and from the fingers of his free arm, leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail from the mouth of the alley to the safe house.

"Come on, darling, almost there. Hang on."

Stairs. Damn stairs. Damn stairs and all their dastardly descendants to Hell. Eames wrapped his arm as tightly as he dared around Arthur's waist, drawing a sharp hiss, but couldn't lift him all the way up. Eames made a mental note to start lifting weights more often.

"Alright, give me a mo'." Eames eased Arthur into a half-sitting, half-lying position on the steps. He raced up the rest of the stairs, into the safe house's cramped kitchen, and returned to Arthur with the first aid kit and a half full bottle of whiskey from the cabinet.

"I've always wanted to rip off these fancy clothes," he said in a brave attempt at humor as he tore the front of Arthur's blood-soaked shirt off. Arthur laughed weakly, blood in his smile and it dribbled down his chin from the corner of his mouth. His usually bright, sharp eyes rolled dizzily.

Eames dropped the bandage he was unwrapping and pressed his hands to either side of Arthur's face, holding it steady.

"Hey, darling, look at me. _Look at me._ "

Arthur's glazed eyes fixed briefly on his before rolling up in his head, and he collapsed all the way back onto the steps, back bent at an impossible angle.

"No. No, no, no, no, not like this. Come on, darling, stay with me." Eames tore the bandage with his teeth, ripped a chunk of his own shirt away, uncapped the bottle of alcohol from the first aid kit, and dumped it onto Arthur's stomach, which instantly foamed in a frothing flood of white bubbles.

Instantly, Arthur's whole body went rigid in intense pain and a feral growl escaped through clenched teeth. His fingers dug powerfully into Eames' arm.

"Thought that might wake you. Come on, darling, bottoms up." He pressed the neck of the whiskey bottle to Arthur's lips with one hand while the other cupped the back of Arthur's head, but they were shaking so badly barely a splash of the whiskey actually made it into Arthur's mouth.

_(Arthur doesn't even drink whiskey, not this cheap stuff anyway. The topic has been discussed and joked about many a time, that Arthur is far too sophisticated to drink anything but fine wine. He has often scoffed at Eames' much cheaper taste. Eames always protests that the ultimate effect is worth the lamentable flavor)_

Arthur coughed and spluttered, but his eyes remained closed. Eames knew he wasn't going to get him any farther on his own. Sure he'd dealt with plenty of wounds before; he'd certainly seen a hell of a lot worse in the streets of Iraq and Afghanistan before he'd left. But he wasn't a doctor, and even if he could sew a bullet wound in a pinch with a few shots of vodka and some dental floss, he knew that Arthur was losing far too much blood for him to properly patch up here. There was only one option left.

"You owe me the biggest favor of your life for this." He stood up and ran back inside the house, straight for a cabinet with a false bottom, from which he extracted a plain leather wallet, complete with a few spare twenties and ones that Eames was quick to stuff in his pocket so as to make it look more like a mugging. Then he was back at Arthur's side, tucking the wallet into his pants pocket and extracting his real one.

"Arthur, you listening?" He tapped Arthur's cheek lightly, trying to get his attention. "Your name's Neil Ryder."

Arthur's eyelids flickered but he said nothing.

"Say it!" Eames ordered. "What's your name?"

"Neil…Ryder," Arthur breathed.

"Good." Eames dug out his burner cell and dialed 911.

* * *

 

Exactly seven minutes and thirty-three seconds later, a wailing ambulance skidded to a halt in front of them, followed quickly by a fire truck and two police squad cars. Even in his panicked state, Eames had to forcefully restrain himself from slipping away down the alley behind the house; he didn't exactly have a healthy or happy relationship with the five-oh. He made himself stand still, however, and answer the chubby cop's questions while anxiously watching the EMTs load Neil Ryder onto a stretcher, allowing genuine fear to show on his face.

 _(He knows Arthur is one tough bastard, knows he's lived through much worse than this. But there was_ a lot _of blood, and if he knows anything, it's the limits of human endurance, even a human like Arthur)_

He told the cop he'd found he guy bleeding on the sidewalk, barely conscious, and called 911. It was a simple story and Eames was nothing if not an accomplished liar. The simplest stories were often the ones people believed the most.

The cop thanked him and told him to go on home, gave him a number to call, "if you remember anything else."

_(The next four weeks will be the longest of Eames' life. He'll high-tail it out of the country early the next morning and head to a rendezvous in the Swiss Alps, in a tiny village with a single restaurant and an honesty shop. It will be breathtakingly beautiful up there, but he won't notice. His vision will be filled only with the image of Arthur's limp body being gently lifted into the back of the ambulance. He keeps the shirt stained with Arthur's blood, even though it's ruined. Arthur can mock him for his sentimentality later—if he made it._

_One day there will be a quiet, rhythmic knock on the door, and Eames will think it's the nice lady from the farm up the hill who sometimes brings him fresh milk or strawberries from her garden. She's a sweetheart with a husband and he generally likes talking to her, though they often have to work through their language barriers._

_He'll open the door and find not her, but a tall, wiry man with immaculately gelled black hair, smirking in a weary sort of way._

_"Did you miss me, Mr. Eames?"_

_This will be the first time Eames realizes that he—just maybe—can love the point man. Or perhaps it's the relief talking.)_

**Arthur is, to Eames, un-forgeable.**

It's something that frustrates him, quite honestly and Arthur just finds it interesting. He's the person who knows Arthur the best, so, logically, he should be able to become him in a dream. Eames has done it to countless others, to people he's never even properly met.

Once, when it's just the two of them and they've only been working together for a about a year or so, Eames has to distract the projections while Arthur kick-starts the kick, information in hand. So he forges himself slimmer, clean-shaved and paler, with darker hair that's not long enough to need slicking back yet. The sharp suits are, as yet, too expensive and he's wearing the brown leather jacket zipped up and jeans.

It's good enough for the projections, but Eames stops to catch his breath in a side street and when he sees his reflection in a window, it looks _off_ , though, physically, he got everything right—save for perhaps the breadth of the shoulders and perhaps Arthur's jaw wasn't quite so sharp. He tries every now and then to get it right, but there's always that _off_ thing.

Arthur has even humored him once or twice and goes down with Eames. He lets himself be observed, turned this way and that as Eames shifts the lines of his forge, softens or sharpens them. darkens the colors or whitens them. He sits still for hours in dreamtime, watching Eames stare at him, trying to find what he can't get right.

The last time, Eames broke the forge and snapped, "You're impossible."

Arthur laughed, unable to help himself. _(He doesn't catch Eames staring as though he's found something he's been looking for for years)_ "Likewise, Eames."

**Arthur is as much haunted by his brother as Eames is.**

_"You look like you've seen a ghost."_

There are differences between the one that Eames has in his grip and the one that's smiling in the window. The smiling one's hair is still military-short and he's dressed in a white T-shirt, his eyes glowing like a cat's, with that same true green.

"He's right," The smiling one repeats. "I wouldn't be telling you a lie like that." He comes around outside through the front door. He's wearing military fatigue pants and boots and he's still smiling. _(He never stopped smiling, not even as he looked down at Eames' little girl as he killed her)_ He comes closer, too close, to Eames. He leans his chin on Eames' shoulder. "But he could be. He's just another me, out to hurt you. What makes you think he's telling the truth?"

"Arty, shut up." The one in Eames' grip says fiercely. Eames can feel him trembling a little and is confused. Projections don't feel fear…

"Oh come on, you know it's true. How're you gonna get him back up there? And he'd go back to what? A wife who he doesn't see and a daughter who doesn't want anything to do with him? Or wait, you? You think you'd be enough?" Arthur James Reynolds spread his hands, anything but innocent. "I know, I know—don't ask, don't tell."

Eames' grip loosens a little, but the one in his grip doesn't make any sudden movements. It makes Eames want to trust him a little more.

"What're you doing here?" The not?-projection asks and he sounds weary. Projections don't tire either.

"I like to play here. It's a wonderful place. Like a house of mirrors."

At that thought, the world shifts on its axis and Eames is falling into—through?—a sheet of glass and he can still feel the other not?-projection's heartbeat in throat and Eames is falling on him, but they're vertical and this time, he doesn't mind the not?-projection being so close.

The not?-projection is looking at him. "Eames, you have to listen to me—you have to wake up. This world of yours, it isn't real. Arthur James Reynolds doesn't exist anymore."

Eames stares at him and the eyes are a solid, honest brown now, no shifting at all. He knows this color, somehow. "How can you be sure?"

"Because I saw him die." _(Eames sensed something that was supposed to be there, a line or a barrier or something, but down here, there were no lines)_ "I was there, in that blast. It's how we ended up meeting, remember? I was discharged from the Marines."

_(Burnt edges, raw and pink…smoking in the weight room…knowing who doesn't fit…)_

"He's lying," Arthur James Reynolds lilts from beyond the glass. "Ask him to prove it. Can't walk away from an explosion just like that."

Eames' eyes move from one to the other _(Mirror images…)_ The one below—in front?—of him says, "I can. Prove it, I mean."

Eames shifts off of him and the not?-projection lifts the Def Leppard shirt. There's a wound splattered there, long enough to be dip below the waistband of the pants to stretch up almost up to his pectorals.

The not-projection stands there and Eames wonders if it's just him who can feel the air between them still trembling. "We're sharing unconstructed dream-space. Your projection of Arthur James Reynolds and mine are starting to merge together, but you never met him. My memories make my projection stronger than yours, so he only knows what I remember him knowing. He never knew what happened to me in reality and you never knew that on his left arm, there's a tattoo."

Eames glances over and the not-projection is proven right. The ink exists, but splotchy, unreadable.

"You don't know what it says, which is why it doesn't look it's there. But I do. It says 'semper fidelis.' Marine Corps motto."

Before Eames' eyes, the ink shifts into script.

"You're holding onto the image of him killing you. It's what keeps him strong."

_(How did he know? About Arthur James Reynolds killing him…?)_

"He's killed my daughter. I saw it—it never goes away."

"It's not your real daughter, Eames. You remember her? She's fourteen now. She's growing up. Sheral's told you about her, remember? You saw her at the wedding." The not-projection is looking Eames straight in the eye now, unflinching.

"Sheral doesn't talk to you anymore, Eames." Arthur James Reynolds' presence is pressing closer, too powerful, too thick against them. His edges are glass-shard sharp, his eyes emerald splinters. "Remember? You're not together anymore."

"Eames," The not-projection _(He had a name, Eames' brain said to him. There was a name to go with those eyes, with those lines that Arthur James Reynolds didn't have)_ calls him firmly, solid as a boulder warmed by the sun. "Eames, where's your locket? Your totem, Eames."

Eames reaches for it—it's around his neck, isn't it? Isn't that where it's always been?—but it's not there. The chain is, thin and gold like the day he bought it, but the locket isn't.

"Are you talking about this?" The other two whirl around and Arthur James Reynolds is dangling a locket, _the_ locket, from a dog tag chain. His grin splinters and spreads, dimples in his cheeks. "It was very easy to steal when he thought I was you, Cameron. He was willing to take it off himself and everything."

 _(Cameron, Eames' mind registered. It was the not-projection's name, once, but Eames, for the life of him, couldn't remember what his name was_ now)

Arthur James Reynolds is saying something and Eames tunes back in. "…kill me, Cameron? Can you?"

Eames' instincts jump when he sees a gun in no-longer-Cameron's hands. It's wrong, he knows instinctively. Not because he shouldn't be holding a gun, but because his hands shouldn't be shaking.

"Don't make me do it," his voice trembles a little and Eames knows it isn't supposed to. Just like the way his hands shouldn't be shaking.

"You're not strong enough to do it. You can't shoot your big brother. Look at you, you're shaking with fear." Arthur James Reynolds takes a few slow steps forward, smooth, easy smile on his lips. "Just put the gun down and—"

But he takes one step too far _(The lines disappeared only for Arthur-and-Eames. They existed still, somewhere, in the safety and stability of Arthur's—_ that's _his name, and it felt right to think—mind)_ and shards of glass shatter with the sound of gunshots and the shards don't fall. They hover in the air, displaced by more bullets and Arthur James Reynolds' body is blown backwards, wounds splattering him. A little above the heart, one above his eye, one skimming through his throat, one in his stomach, Arthur doesn't stop shooting until the gun clicks empty and even then, his arms don't fall.

 _(It's his brother and even though he's dead and Arthur_ knew _that, it hurt and ached and Arthur wanted to break down like he did the last time because Arthur James Reynolds was staring at him with two green green eyes, one bloody, both unseeing and dead and gone and he's lost his brother once more)_

"…Arthur?"

Eames knows this name, it feels right on his tongue, to this person. Why isn't he answering? He reaches out and touches Arthur's shoulder and the muscles of the shoulder are tense and hard. "Arthur?"

Arthur turns to him. "…Eames?" He studies him closer, arms lowering slowly. "Do you know who I am?"

"Arthur."

"That's a name, Eames. Who am I?"

_(Who was Arthur? Arthur was cold feet in the night. Arthur was a reader, a wine-drinker, an early-riser. Arthur was sharing smokes on the Cobbs' front steps, was indulging godfather and loyal man. Arthur was methodical and neat and sci-fi nerd. Arthur was coffee-flavored kisses and glasses on the nightstand. Arthur was…)_

"You're real."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames believes in second chances. Sometimes.

 

* * *

  
_Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind  
_ _Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves  
_ _The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach  
_ _Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow  
_ _Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free  
_ _Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands  
_ _With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves  
_ _Let me forget about today until tomorrow.  
_ _-Bob Dylan_ **(Mr. Tambourine Man)**  


* * *

**Eames can't look Arthur in the eye after the failed inception.**

He woke up gasping, heart seizing, his left thumb already rubbing the engravings on his brother's dog tags. _(The brother he just killed…)_ A hand was seizing his arm and he looked over to see Eames, still waking.

"Eames," Arthur called gently as soon as the grip on his arm relaxed a little. "Eames, we're out."

Gray eyes stared at him and, for several horrible heartbeats, there was no recognition in them. Arthur sat perfectly still, didn't make any movements even though every part of his being was telling him to get out of this building, to get out of this city, to leave and not look back.

The hand on his arm relaxed by a few slight fractions. "We're out?"

"Completely, I promise." Arthur was very aware of the gun that Eames had left within arms' reach before he'd gone under and he still didn't move.

"What happened? To the others." Eames hadn't, after all, been working alone.

"They left. Once the dream collapsed, they left." And Eames hadn't been able to catch the kick and had been dragged down into limbo. Arthur didn't think he'd ever be able to get the image of Eames lying in that chair, alone, needle in his arm. "We have to get out of here. The Marzan Company won't wait long to tie up their loose ends."

Eames nodded and, like clockwork, they took the needles out and wrapped up the PASIV. If they had more time, Arthur would have set the building alight to get rid of all the evidence, but there wasn't any time. They needed to get out of Colombia now.

_(They don't look at each other once while they work, don't look at each other when they're buying their tickets or taking their seats on the plane. Arthur takes the aisle seat by unspoken agreement; his stomach is still twisting, his brother lying dead at his feet from his own hand will be an image he can't ever erase from his mind)_

The flight took them to Florida—it made Arthur want to grimace at the irony. Florida was where it all began, years and years ago, in front of an air conditioning vent—and they hid in a motel the kind that they haven't stayed in since they first started out in this business.

They didn't acknowledge the chasm between them _(It's there, they know it. It crackles along their empty spaces, in the slight gap between them when they lie down to sleep because there isn't any way in hell they're sleeping alone tonight.)_ and neither mentioned the fact that Eames' hand wouldn't move from Arthur's hip where he could still feel the roughness of scar tissue and Arthur kept his die, not on the bedside table like he usually would, but beneath his pillow, right alongside a pistol.

_(They're broken, Arthur-and-Eames, and they don't know what to do about it because they've never been quite like this. They've never seen each other stripped raw and exposed as only limbo can do. They're too close now and they don't know how to handle it. But they try. They try to pretend none of this ever happened, try to pretend that they don't know why the other wakes in cold sweats.)_

They got the first flight out the next morning—it's in Ontario and they couldn't pretend to be grateful for the long plane ride—and they lay low there for two weeks. They tried to make it work, but there was too much distance between them and not enough. They found themselves almost jumping at shadows—Arthur more than Eames because whenever he caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye, his hand twitched towards his gun—and constantly checking their totems.

They spoke of the incident only once and not directly. Arthur was dressing in the bathroom—or rather, he was finished dressing. He was combing his hair, which he would keep longer than usual for a while more—and Eames slipped inside, leaning back against the sink so that he didn't face the mirror and he didn't look at Arthur.

"…I don't know if this works. As a totem."

Arthur looked at him and saw his hands fiddling with the locket. He'd seen it more times in these two weeks than he had in the entire six years of their relationship. He didn't know what to say; the rule for totems was that no one else was allowed to touch them, or know them. But Arthur-and-Eames have broken this rule so many times, have broken it to the point where it was shattered in pieces on the ground now. _(Like them)_ Arthur has held the locket, knows the photos inside, has clasped the chain on some mornings when it didn't want to cooperate with Eames and Eames has run his fingers over the dog tags, has traced the name and number, has adjusted the chain so that the clasp was in the back, the one thing that meticulous, detail-oriented Arthur could never seem to remember to do.

Arthur's own memory could function as his totem. His memories of his brother lying, burned and broken and dead at his feet with one eye still intact to look at Arthur without seeing him would never fade. But he knew that he couldn't rely on his memory.

"What do you want to do?" Getting a new totem was not so simple. The first totem was, but the mind became attached to totems.

"To be perfectly honest, darling," Eames hadn't stopped calling Arthur that, for which Arthur was a bit grateful. This, Arthur-and-Eames, were still fixable. "I don't know."

 _(It's the end of their discussion and neither Arthur nor Eames will tell the other about the new totems they think of, though it's likely that they know. The die and the poker chip have been semi-permanent additions to their pockets since the early days, after all. After this, they will find one more job to try together because they don't quite want to go on jobs by themselves yet, not without assurance that_ he _won't be there. They have to go back to Florida—and the irony continues—and they'll drive an hour out to the beach with a classic rock station playing—"It's been a while, darling,"—and there will be two sets of footprints on the sand, side by side.)_

**Eames' nose gets cold.**

Arthur's back arched instinctively away from the sensation creeping down his back before he half-turned over to get a good look at Eames, who had his nose pressed against Arthur's shoulder.

"Eames, what're you doing?"

"I'm cold." Arthur felt the words and warm breath against his skin rather than heard them. "And this is proper payback, Arthur. Your feet were worse."

Arthur rolled his eyes and shifted into a more comfortable position as he felt a smile pressed against his skin.

**Eames is a man of many talents.**

Arthur looked up from his book at the sound of a pencil scratching on paper and, from the looks of it, Eames had been doing whatever he was doing for quite a while. _(The fact that he hasn't noticed it before this is a strange thing and, at first, every part of him wants to rebel because Eames is getting too close. But they're trying and it's strange to have to try because it's been surprisingly natural up until now)_ He was curled in the armchair opposite the couch with his back to the window, a notebook balanced on his knees and every few seconds his eyes would flick up at Arthur and back down.

"Eames."

A hum of acknowledgement.

"What're you doing?"

A tilt of the lips. "You'll see."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, don't sound so disbelieving. You will."

Arthur just rolled his eyes and settled himself more comfortably on the couch, stretching his legs a bit since they'd started to fall asleep before returning to his book. Today was one of their few quiet days; no one's after them, no jobs until Tuesday.

Hours later, when Arthur's stomach had begun letting him know that it was time for dinner, Eames uncurled himself from the armchair with many a cracking joint and drops the notebook on Arthur's knees. Curious, Arthur lowered the book and studied the notebook.

It was a sketch. Of Arthur, as he was, lying on the couch reading in flannel pajama pants and a faded Rebel Alliance T-shirt. It was a little rough, but lovingly detailed.

Arthur turned and found Eames not there, but if he listened, he heard the fridge opening and closing and the clatter of pans. He placed his bookmark in between the pages, closed the book and followed the forger.

He leaned a shoulder on the doorframe, notebook still in hand. "…You never told me you can draw."

"I can't." Arthur waited for the rest of it. "Jayson Scott can."

Arthur remembered Jayson Scott. It was an old alias, from when they were still fresh runaways from the military. Jayson Scott had been a second year art student at San Diego State University. And when he glanced down at the signature tucked into the corner, it was indeed Jayson Scott's signature, with the overly loopy S and a single line between the T's.

_(He finds it odd, sometimes, how Eames compartmentalized his identities, but he supposes it works. Most of the time. Eames doesn't break down as often anymore, the personalities jumbled. And with Eames, when he does a cover, he does it right. But Arthur hadn't known that Eames had taught himself to draw for Jayson, or that he still remember how)_

Arthur didn't quite know what to say to that or how to respond. But Eames was very determinedly working on dinner—he loved to cook and though Arthur couldn't understand it, he appreciated it—so Arthur set the notebook down and took the few steps separating him and Eames so that they stood side by side.

"He may be able to draw," Arthur began and he felt Eames' eyes shift onto him. "But can he cook?"

Eames chuckled, warm and rolling. "He can't be much worse than you are, darling."

Arthur couldn't disagree.

**Eames believes in second chances. Sometimes.**

After the second inception, after he watched Dom wake, blinking away the shades of the dream and saw the clarity in his eyes, the understanding of where he was, Arthur knew he could relax. He started to fill out the immigration forms and kept running the job over in his mind as he did.

_(He's always watching his own dreams, waiting for signs that he's becoming like Dom and Arthur James Reynolds is breaking through in all his broken, reflective glory. So far, he's still okay)_

Arthur frowned when he looked down at his papers and saw nothing there. He'd gone to fill them out without a pen. He needed sleep, proper sleep.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned automatically, already knowing who it would be and not sure of how this was going to go _(Because Arthur-and-Eames are still broken, still don't match up right anymore with their jagged edges)_. Eames was holding out a pen stolen from the hotel and he asked, "Missing something?" because he knew that Arthur was terrible about keeping track of pens.

Arthur could get another pen. He could find his own—he had one, he knew, in his carry-on, somewhere—or he could ask the stewardess for one. Instead he told Eames, "Yes," and accepted the pen-and-peace-offering.

* * *

 

They went out drinking that night. They didn't mention what was between them, or rather, what wasn't, didn't mention dead brothers or dead daughters and missing families. Not now.

* * *

 

Arthur woke first, unsurprisingly. He'd gotten significantly less drunk than Eames, who he could feel like a wall of heat beside him on a slightly too small bed _(In truth, the bed is big enough for the both of them. There's a good foot of space between them, but everything feels too close right now)._ He slipped off the bed slowly, blinking away the dizziness. He didn't check for a totem because you couldn't get drunk in a dream. Or he couldn't, at least. His mind couldn't mimic the drunken feel, one of the few things he couldn't do in a dream.

He managed to make his way to the kitchen, not daring to put any lights on. He'd slept, at least, if not long. He glanced at the clock on the microwave of the hotel room. 8:24AM. Late for his usual schedule, but still early enough by the world's standards.

On autopilot, Arthur got the coffee going, started boiling some water and wondered if he had any aspirin left in his bag. He decided he could wait to look for it until he'd gotten some water back in his system.

He felt sluggish and a little lethargic. Arthur wasn't used to feeling like that and it bothered him more than a little. Still, he couldn't complain. These past weeks had been too fast-paced, never sleeping, never stopping. So Arthur pushed himself up to sit on the counter and sipped at his water, listening to the drip of the coffee that still wasn't done.

Eames wandered in a few minutes later. He set a bottle of aspirin down on the counter beside Arthur's thigh, popping two of the pills in his mouth as he stole a few sips of what was left of Arthur's water.

The next moment, he froze. _(It's too easy for them to get back into routine, to drop back into knowing each other effortlessly. Before this job, Eames hadn't seen Arthur for a year, but he still knows in which pocket of the carry-on bag that Arthur keeps his aspirin and he can guess which book he'd decided to bring with him on this trip on the off-chance of any free time and for the appearance of normalcy. It's too easy for Arthur to make only enough coffee for himself and boiling some water because Eames prefers his tea. It's all too easy and all too close and they don't know how to handle it after everything)_

"…We need to talk, darling," Eames began and his voice is rough and he didn't move from where he was, less than six inches from touching Arthur and not moving towards the boiling water.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, we do."

But they fell silent because words weren't their strong suit and they kept secrets too close.

"…I don't think I ever thanked you." There was no need to ask for what.

"I never thanked you either, so we're even." Arthur stared into his coffee, too black and not sweet enough, but it's waking him up and clearing his head and that was what he needed right now.

"Arthur, seriously, thank you…and I'm sorry." _(Sorry that this happened to him, sorry that he had been forced to make a choice, sorry that it's all Eames' fault—but Arthur can't accept that because he'd been the one to break his own rule and tell Eames about his brother—and Eames won't accept Arthur's reasoning because he never had to go into Arthur's dreams without his permission, never had to slip in there and see the reflection that doesn't age and these days, Eames thinks that Arthur is more of a twisted Dorian Gray)_

Neither of them were good at apologies. Not real ones. But they could try. For this, they would try.

"That's what I'm thanking you for, Eames." Arthur still didn't look at him and felt like a coward, but then, everyone was a coward at one point or another. "I…I needed to do that. I couldn't let him stay there." Arthur managed to look up a little, enough to see the ink on Eames' arms and torso, the empty space over his heart. "Otherwise, he might have done what Mal did."

And Arthur James Reynolds was a different type of dangerous.

"I don't think you would have let that happen, darling." But it was a partial lie. Eames wanted to believe that Arthur's self-control would never break like Dom's had, but he knew it could. He'd seen it. _(…take your brother's name?...survivor's guilt…psychoanalyzing…not a mark…tit for tat…real name?)_ Because, at the end of the day, Arthur was human and as breakable as glass if someone tried and everyone had their limits.

"I could have. If I wanted to." Because sometimes, he missed his brother so fiercely that it _ached_ in his chest.

"And I wanted to stay." Eames finally moved, leaned against the counter and there was barely an inch of space between his elbow and Arthur's knee.

"I know." Arthur had almost had wanted to let him stay. Because Eames deserved that little girl, deserved the loving wife, deserved it all. But something had made him plant his feet and say no. "I… couldn't let you."

And if he had, he wouldn't be the person Eames knew because the man Eames knew was stubborn and loyal and always looking out for his people's best interests.

They sat in silence again, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and staring at the sterility of the hotel room. This conversation should have happened at Arthur's apartment, or at Eames', someplace familiar with familiar touches and things that were _theirs._ But things couldn't always work out that nicely.

"...Where do we go from here?" Arthur asked quietly.

It was strange, hearing that question from his mouth. Arthur was always the man with the plan, the one who always knew what he was doing and pretended he did if he didn't. So Eames glanced up at him—he wasn't the Point Man here. This was Arthur. Old T-shirt and pajama pants that always hang a little low on his slim hips that he'd put on after getting out of bed because he wasn't as comfortable as Eames walking around not fully dressed. Hair finger-combed into some semblance of neatness and tired eyes that didn't look as hollow as Eames sometimes remembered them.

"I don't know, darling." _(Eames still sees Arthur James Reynolds sometimes, lean and seductive, dangling the locket because Eames had allowed it, because Eames isn't used to seeing double so his mind in limbo had overlaid the images of Arthur and his brother and he still sometimes looks at Arthur and sees it like that)_

They're in it for the long haul, that was a given and something agreed upon years ago. But how they'd last through the long haul was something else. Because in for the long haul didn't necessarily mean as lovers.

"…Start slow?" Eames suggested. "One day at a time." And he knew Arthur didn't like it; he preferred long term plans, but this wasn't the kind of thing that they could make a long term plan for, so they'd have to live with it.

_(They haven't lived a day at a time since the beginning, when they were ex-soldiers on the run)_

Finally, Arthur nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips because he was still too tired for a real one. "…There's tea."

Eames managed a smile back. "So there is."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur almost got a tattoo once.

* * *

_"What is a man but the sum of his memories? We are the stories we live! The tales we tell ourselves!"  
-Subject 16 **(Assassin's Creed Revelations)**_

* * *

**Arthur almost got a tattoo once.**

"Come on, darling. It would work—me driving me a motorcycle and you on the back with a tramp stamp. It'd be perfect."

"You're assuming that I would ever be on a motorcycle with you again, which I won't, by the way because your driving is, frankly, abysmal."

"'Abysmal'?" Eames repeated. "You're not nearly drunk enough if you can still say words like that."

"Who said I was trying to get drunk? I'm not you, Eames."

Eames waved the comment away airily. "You haven't answered my question."

"I didn't hear a question."

Eames ignored that too. "You only have yourself to blame, you know. You indulged Ariadne's curiosity."

"No, I indulged her curiosity with you in the room," Arthur corrected. "You're the catalyst, Mr. Eames."

Ariadne had gotten a glimpse of Eames' tattoos, which had sparked the entire conversation. It had led to her asking Arthur if he had any tattoos and Eames had had to swallow a very wide grin at that one. He knew for a fact that there wasn't a speck of ink on Arthur anywhere.

"You're telling me that in, what, twenty-eight, twenty-nine years you've never thought about getting one? Not even in the wild days of your youth?" Eames lounged back against the couch, arms resting on the back and legs stretched out comfortably in the apartment. _(It's not theirs. Not again. Not yet. But it is neutral ground that can't ever be neutral again)_

Arthur, curled into an armchair with a blanket over his legs, said, "…Once, I did." Eames didn't have to say anything. Only watch Arthur, who knew to continue. "I must've been…seventeen? No, eighteen. It was the day after I turned eighteen."

_(It's something they don't mention and they're mostly successful in not thinking about. Arthur's walls are up again in a way they haven't been since Before. And they have new Befores now because new lines have been crossed and ignored and they have to deal with the repercussions of that. Arthur uses single pronouns and Eames keeps his locket on and neither of them say a word about it)_

"Where?"

Arthur turned his right arm so that the underside showed.

"Would you have gotten some Japanese character?"

"No," he hesitated, then continued, "I was going to get 'semper fidelis'."

Eames froze, the words echoing in the space and silence between them. There was a new line there, crossed brashly before, but now, they've both been toeing them. "…I thought that was—"

"…I lied. Technically. There-there was a tattoo. Same place. It said 'Philippians 4:13'." Arthur wasn't looking at him now, intent on his empty wineglass. He wasn't usually the one to cross lines like this and Eames found it strange that he would choose to do it now. _(In a way, he's a bit grateful to see Arthur do it. It's a sign of healing, even though Eames knows that Arthur can't ever forget what happened down there)_

"The Bible was never my strong suit."

"'I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me,'" Arthur recited as if from memory and Eames remembered two silver crosses tucked in the back of a drawer.

"And you were going to get 'always loyal'?" Eames knew it was a horrible redirection, one that came screeching to a halting U-turn. It suited him. It suited him wonderfully and terribly because Arthur had always been too loyal for his own good.

"It wasn't my idea." From the careful lack of any other information, Eames knew whose idea it had been and he was grateful that they were both keeping to each other's sides of the line. "I almost did it too."

"Why didn't you?"

Arthur shrugged. "Didn't think it was worth it."

_(Sometimes, in his wilder imaginings, Eames will think of two simple gold bands with words inscribed on them. Semper fidelis. But he knows it won't happen)_

"Did you ever think anything might be worth it?"

Arthur twirled the wine glass slowly in his hand, eyes fixating on the way the light filtered through it. More than once, he'd considered his brother's name, something for his brother. But after all of…this…he'd decided that he didn't need something else to tie Arthur James Reynolds to him. _(But they're twins. They're supposed to be together, always)_

"Once or twice."

"And they fell short? Have you ever thought that perhaps your standards are a _tad_ high?" Eames asked, holding his forefinger and thumb an inch apart to demonstrate.

Arthur smirked easily. "Well, someone has to make up for your standards, with their permanent residence in the gutter."

And with that, Arthur veered them out of lined territory back into familiar, safe unlined expanse of air between them and both could breathe easier. They won't mention this tomorrow, or the day after that or ten years from now, but sometimes, Eames would run his fingers over that blank expanse of skin and trace the imaginary words.

**Arthur doesn't believe in bedside manner.**

"Darling, did you ever think— _ow—_ about getting your own private doctor to do— _ouch_ —these sorts of things? You know, someone with a—watch where you're sticking that—degree?"

Arthur doesn't look at him, focused as he is on the knife wound along the outside of Eames' right forearm. It's a shallow cut, all things concerned, just a long one. Eames won't tell him how he got the wound, but Arthur doesn't need to know that. He just knows that Eames found him in his temporary safe-house—not so safe anymore, now that Eames is here and probably led anyone still after him here—and his sleeve was soaked in red.

Arthur's hands are as perfectly steady with the needle and thread as they are with a gun; it's a reassuring thought on Eames' part because in almost two years, he has never known Arthur to miss a shot. "You came to me, remember? You want some med-school cookie cutter doctor, you go get your own."

"I'm flattered, truly," Eames says dryly. "You sound so very concerned."

"This could've been a lot worse, Eames," Arthur tells him. "You're lucky."

Eames is close enough that he can count Arthur's eyelashes, with some difficulty. He leans a little closer to ask, "Are you going to help me get lucky tonight, darling?"

From this angle, Eames can see the way Arthur's ears pink a bit. It's entertaining to tease and flirt with him. Half the time, that was why he did it. The other half, Eames is usually being serious. Despite the pinked ears, Arthur's voice is completely steady and unaffected. "Thought you didn't need my help."

"Well, with my arm out of commission…" Eames trailed off, glancing down at his injured right arm.

Arthur's hands pause then and he tilts his head up, just enough that they're sharing the same air space. His smirk curls smooth and spicy and one of them only has to move forward and inch and they'd be kissing. "You're a leftie, Mr. Eames. Men like you should make their own luck."

It takes Eames a minute to process it and by the time he does, Arthur is back to working on his stitches.

"You're a cold son of a bitch, did you know that, darling?" Eames won't deny that he rather likes Arthur that way.

"As an iceberg," Arthur agrees and finishes the stitching. He examines his handiwork with a critical eye; the stitches are a bit crooked, but they're serviceable. He's not a medic by any means. He's usually the one making people need medics. "You're done."

"I'll leave the money on the dresser, shall I?"

Arthur rolls his eyes as he stands. "Are you staying or not?" he asks as he disappears into his bedroom.

"Why?"

He comes out a minute later with a new shirt he's buttoning on—the old one being bloodstained and, if he's lucky, the stains will come out, but he doubts it. "Because I'm going to dinner and I want to know if you're going to join me."

"You're terrible at asking people on dates."

Arthur takes his keys, wallet and phone from where he left them on the table before he'd set Eames there to stitch him up. "Then I suppose it's a very good thing that this isn't a date then."

**No matter how much he may travel, Arthur is still an American.**

Eames opened the door to the smell of something burning. "Arthur?"

"There's no fire, Eames," Arthur's voice reassured.

Eames toed his shoes off and shucked his jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa as he made his way to the kitchen. "…Darling, what are you doing?"

Arthur's hair was sticking up at odd angles from running his fingers through it. There was soot on his hands and a strange assortment of colors that could very well be a new life form in the pot in the sink.

"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving." Arthur said it like it explained everything.

"Right…I thought we were going to Cobb's." Eames' mind was still trying to process it all, but the more he observed and understood, the stronger the urge to burst out laughing was.

"We are."

Eames blinked, still not understanding where the destruction of his kitchen _(And when had the kitchen in Arthur's apartment become_ his _kitchen?)_ came in. He decided to change the question. "What were you trying to make?"

"Cheesecake."

"Cheesecake? On Thanksgiving?" Eames wasn't entirely certain of the accepted menu for Thanksgiving was, but he was pretty sure that cheesecake wasn't on it. "I thought it was supposed to be some kind of pie."

"I thought cheesecake would be easier." Arthur wasn't looking at, determinedly scrubbing at the pot in the sink, up to his elbows in suds.

"Right…" Eames didn't know why Arthur had decided to try to cook this year. He didn't ask either, sensing a different sort of line and he wasn't sure what would happen if he crossed it. Instead, he just said, "Next year, drop by the supermarket and buy one, alright, darling?"

Arthur flicked a few suds at him grumpily, but Eames was probably right.

_(He won't tell Eames that in his sister's last email, she'd invited him to Thanksgiving. When he told her that he'd already made plans, she hadn't said anything. Had just told him about Mom cooking and her boyfriend coming as well. Arthur doesn't like to think about the fact that it will just be the three of them in Vermont, doesn't like to think about the fact that Dom's house is going to have the kids underfoot, trying to steal food, and Ariadne's sweet teasing and Dom's less-bleak smile. Eames' warm laughter and Mal's mother's pecan pie, Miles following behind with a tray of sweet potatoes. About Dom's second cousin from Minnesota with his son. Dom's father will call to wish them a happy holiday, unable to make it from Montana. It'll seem very full and, perhaps, they might be able to get through the holiday without memories of Mal.)_

**Arthur is a study of secrets within secrets.**

Eames asked him a question once, a question he hadn't known would bother the other man _(And it does bother him, whether Arthur admits to it or not)_. He didn't get an answer until months later, sitting inside a restaurant by the windows and sharing paella. Arthur didn't wear a suit jacket, but Eames could still see the faint outlines and distortions in his shirt and waistcoat to tell him where the gun—or guns—that he had on his person were.

"…My father was a policeman," Arthur replied, splitting open a mussel with the precision that he did most things.

It took Eames a second to realize where this was coming from. _(Eames doesn't realize it yet, but this is Arthur's best kept secret, beyond even Arthur James Reynolds)_ "Wanted to follow in his footsteps?"

Arthur's eyes darkened and the mussel splits the air with a loud crack. "For a while."

The one time he'd been to the Reynolds family home, he hadn't seen a single photograph of Arthur's father anywhere. Eames would fully admit that he may have been distracted by Arthur and his siblings and the sweet-tart personality of his mother, but he still didn't think that any were in the house.

There was something more there, something that Arthur wasn't telling him and likely wouldn't tell him. After all these years and everything between them, Arthur didn't tell anyone the full truth.

"Was he a good cop?"

"…People told me he was."

Died in the line of duty perhaps, before Arthur was old enough to remember him. Eames knew better than to bring it up here and now, but he knew where to look for these things now. Arthur wouldn't tell him the full truth, but he had given Eames the key to his secrets when he told him his last name, when he allowed him to go to Vermont.

_(The first had been a conscious decision on Arthur's part. The second, not so much. Arthur's still trying to figure out if he regrets either.)_


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames believes in asking for forgiveness rather than permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes and underlines in the last section are from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

* * *

  
_"I remember the first day when  
I fought the battle of love, I said:  
_ _Alas, if this is love, I grieve!"_  
-Giacomo Leopardi

* * *

**Eames has very few secrets that Arthur doesn't know about. Allen Reed is a different story.**

Arthur came out of the shower, tying a towel round his hips, to a hushed phone conversation. At first, he frowned a little; he hadn't heard his phone go off and usually, people tended to try Arthur first. He was better about picking up the phone. But he knew that Eames had contact with some of the more…unsavory…people than he did.

And then he heard Eames. "…back? Darling, why would…"

_(Eames has only ever called three people darling in his life and one hardly remembers the sound of his voice. They are, in order, Sherallyn Evans, Amara Reed and Arthur)_

"…No, I know that, but…decide…"

Arthur couldn't hear the entire conversation from where he was in the bedroom. Only snatches. And he didn't know enough—or hadn't tried to learn enough, rather—to know where the snatches fit in with the man who had been Allen Reed.

" _Trust_ him? Sheral, the man…streets…come waltzing…my daughter!"

Arthur heard the familiar sound of Eames letting himself fall onto the sofa and a long sigh. "…ness…family…careful, darling…" The snap of Eames' phone closing and it was long minutes before he asked, "How much did you hear?"

Arthur stepped out to lean a shoulder against the wall and really looked at Eames. There were old shadows in his eyes and his hair was sticking up a little from where he'd raked his fingers through it. "Not as much as you seem to think I did."

"Oh really?"

Arthur knew the answer that Eames was looking for. "Not enough to know what was going on."

There was a minute relaxation in Eames' shoulders. "Not like you couldn't. If you wanted to."

Arthur knew he could. He knew where Sherallyn lived, he knew about the cousin in Ireland, could find Eames' military records and he knew about Allen Reed. For him, it was enough to find out a man's life story. _(A part of him wants to. A part of him wants to leap across that line that he hasn't crossed in over eight years of knowing the man. But he doesn't. They've seen the consequences of looking for things buried too deep. Secrets could make a man go insane)_

"I won't," Arthur assured him before turning to get dressed.

He half expected Eames to come in after him, but he didn't. It wasn't until hours later that Eames was cooking and Arthur slipped in to grab a bottle of water from the fridge that Eames hooked an arm around his waist, pausing for a second to allow Arthur to register the lack of danger _(Because Eames knows Arthur's instincts almost as well as Arthur does and Arthur's first instinct to being grabbed is to fight)_ and tugged him closer.

Eames drops a kiss on the corner of his mouth before releasing him. "Thank you, darling."

**Eames has a bad leg.**

Arthur hadn't been there when it happened. He hadn't even known about it until eight years into their relationship. He'd seen the scar, an old, white patch of skin on Eames' left thigh and he had enough similar-looking scars to recognize a bullet wound when he saw one.

There were no outward signs of anything for the years that they'd been living together unofficially. Arthur had been munching on a piece of toast while reading the paper when he'd heard a clatter and a thump, followed by low curses.

Arthur didn't remember moving, but the next thing he knew, he was in the doorframe to the bedroom and trying to figure out what had happened. "Eames?"

The forger looked up, one hand on his thigh, the other gripping the edge of the bedside table. "Morning, darling." He didn't sound good.

Arthur's eyes went to Eames' tense thigh. "What happened?"

"Old wound acting up. It's fine."

"Didn't sound like it."

"Difficult as it might be for you to believe, you don't know everything." Eames pushed himself to his feet and managed to stay standing this time, though he was leaning rather heavily on his right leg.

If Eames needed help, Arthur knew that he wouldn't ask. So he asked, "Do you want me to get anything?"

_(Eames' first instinct is to tell Arthur no. On the few bad days he's had, he's managed to get through them without Arthur's knowledge thus far. He shouldn't be ashamed of a bad leg; he'd earned it in the days before he'd even met Arthur, back when he'd still been a soldier. Hundreds of soldiers were injured like this; Arthur had been wounded even worse. But Eames had been fine for a few years, hadn't felt more than the occasional twinge of pain if he didn't move for a long time or if he slept on it wrong. But now that he's getting older, it hurts more and he doesn't like to feel his age creeping up on him. Particularly not with Arthur looking perfectly healthy and strong and Eames is reminded that he's older than the point man)_

"...Some aspirin would be appreciated, darling," he settled on finally. Compromise. They had learned to compromise, somewhat. It had only taken them nearly ten years.

Arthur eyed him. "Not without breakfast. Can you make it to the kitchen?"

"Of course I can. I'm not handicapped." It was said with more bite than Arthur was sure that Eames meant for it to have, but Arthur didn't allow it to bother him.

"Shame. It would make parking easier." With that, Arthur turned and headed to the kitchen.

He ignored the slight creaks of Eames bracing himself against the walls and furniture. He heard the scrape of a chair in the dining room and brought Eames a bowl of Cheerios.

Eames looked up at him, eyebrow arched in an almost perfect imitation of Arthur. Arthur just braced a hip against the table, arms crossed and told him, "It's this or food poisoning." Arthur was well aware of his cooking skills, or lack thereof.

Eames started on the Cheerios, but as Arthur pushed himself off the table—likely to get himself more toast. He was rather fond of toast; his mother used to dip it in her morning coffee, he remembered—Eames grabbed his arm and tugged him down for a quick kiss. He felt Arthur's automatic tension and waited until he relaxed before smirking against his lips and saying, "You'd make a lovely housewife, darling."

Arthur nipped him in retaliation for the comment before pulling back. "Not even in your dreams, Mr. Eames."

**Eames believes in asking forgiveness rather than permission.**

It was a rare night that Eames worked later than Arthur, but they happened every now and again. Eames had assured him that he wouldn't be long and pushed him towards the bedroom. Arthur had woken at roughly midnight to find the space beside him still cold and the bedclothes still neat. He'd gone to the bathroom before walking out into the living room, yawning and squinting his eyes against the bright glare from the laptop on the coffee table in front of Eames.

"Having trouble?" Arthur asked, padding across the floor to sit on the arm of the sofa.

Eames glanced up at him. "Not the kind you're thinking of."

Arthur hummed in interest and leaned closer to see. The screen was a little blurry—he'd taken his contacts out before bed—but he could still read most of it without a problem. And he was so intent on reading the words that he almost didn't notice the tension humming off of Eames. It was casually masked, but Arthur had known him too long for any masks to work.

"Eames…anything you're willing to explain to me?" Arthur asked quietly and Eames felt the latent violence churning beneath the skin. _(Sometimes, the pressed suits and sleek hair are enough to make people forget or to mask the fact that Arthur is a man of violence, is a man born of violence. Eames can't ever forget that; if he starts to, he begins to see quicksilver waves of glass in his dreams, a house, his little girl in her bloody dress and Arthur standing there, shaking, but aim still dead-on as he shoots down his brother…)_

The screen showed old documents, more than a decade old, and the name that reads on most of them is Officer William Scott Reynolds.

_(Arthur hasn't thought of this name since he was fourteen. He'd thought he'd put it behind him. But he should know by now that his past doesn't like to stay settled)_

"I wanted to know." There was nothing else to it, really and Eames had been going rather good with his 'honesty with Arthur' plan.

"Find anything interesting?" Arthur's voice went soft and silky-smooth and Eames knew that this could make or break them for real this time. Arthur James Reynolds had almost done it, but Arthur had been willing to fight for Eames on that one and Eames wasn't sure that he could face Arthur's ghosts on his own.

"I thought you didn't like asking questions you already knew the answer to?" Eames asked quietly and he kept waiting for the instinctive twitch towards the pistol that wasn't there, for the snap of temper's leash.

"Eames, get out." They'd been crossing lines with each other for years, but this was new. Or rather, it was an old line that Arthur had thought didn't need to be concerned about again. They'd done research on each other before, he was well aware of that. They'd dug for information, for leverage, but that had been in the old days before they'd actually trusted each other. Arthur hadn't gone digging into Eames' past since Before, way Before. He could have, but he'd chosen not to. He'd thought that Eames had done the same. Apparently not.

Eames blinked at him. "Arthur—"

"Out."

Eames knew he had no high ground to stand on here. It was Arthur's apartment still _(And, abruptly, no longer theirs again, as though the apartment is tuned to Arthur's moods and personality, able to shut people out in an instant)_ and he'd been the one to leap across a line. So he stood, gathered his laptop and grabbed one of the emergency bags full of clothes, ID, papers and money before shrugging on his coat.

The entire time, Arthur hadn't moved from his spot on the arm of the sofa, almost part of the shadows if it weren't for the pale washes of his skin. Eames didn't say where he was going; if Arthur wanted to talk to him, he could do the work to find him.

"Goodbye, darling." And with that, the door shut behind him.

**Words affect Eames more than he lets on.**

When people shared a space for long enough, patterns emerged. Routines. And routines were dangerous things. Routines had gotten people killed in the past.

Arthur had gotten into his own, small, routine that he hadn't even been quite aware of. He had a habit of writing in his books _(It used to drive his brother insane; Arthur James Reynolds hated the idea of people inking their thoughts on the pages)_ and he knew that Eames knew about that habit. The forger had never commented on it, not verbally, but he left his own writings in there, childishly neat and thoughtful in the way that only people who worked in the intricacies of dreams could be.

At some point, his mind started making notes of which books Eames borrowed. It wasn't a strange thing for his mind to do; he liked to know what went where, his liked organization.

So when he found himself heading for a plane trip out to Paris for Ariadne's graduation—Eames being out on a job and would meet them there if all went well. If it didn't go well…then, improvisation came in—he found himself grabbing one of his books off the shelf so he could put it in his carry-on. Chicago to Paris was a long flight.

He fetched his pen from his carry-on at the same time he got his book. He knew that his thoughts were penned out in there, not quite neat and curving up around the borders around the page. Some of the pages looked entirely black for all the ink that was there, occasionally spattered with blue. And he'd gotten used to there being pages with Eames' handwriting, with his thoughts left on the pages too.

But this particular book— _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , not a favorite of Arthur's but he liked to reread it every now and again—was filled with too many musings of Eames. Nearly all of the pages are filled with his writing and, when Arthur read them, they weren't all about Oscar Wilde's words.

Arthur started simple, for this book was a puzzle that made a picture of Eames' mind. And Arthur had always been good at puzzles. He started with the underlines, for those were markers of which turns the thoughts would be going.

In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. A gap between sentences and the underline continues. It is like a bric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value.

There were no words around these underlines, nothing to extrapolate here. But Arthur could see where this was going and he knew with a mental wince when Eames had written all this. Roughly two years ago, but long enough that the scars hadn't become fully formed and that it stung a little, touching those wounds again.

_(Limbo is a terrible place and its scars are not quick to heal. They've done it so far, with much ignoring and blurting things out, with painful truths and cold lies. But this is going to rip off any Band-Aids, break all through all the silences because there are no lines in limbo)_

There were lines crossed out, which drew Arthur's attention even swifter.

~~What you have is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic.~~

Perhaps that was true, Arthur mused. Perhaps Oscar Wilde was a man well ahead of his time.

Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him.

And Arthur knew that the underline was meant for the both of them. He was proven right by the three words squeezed in on the right margin. _Pot and kettle_.

A part of Arthur rebelled because he wanted to say that he was his own person, that Arthur James Reynolds had been nothing like him. It was an old argument, one made often of twins. That they were separate people, with separate identities _(But are they?)_ Arthur James and Cameron Reynolds had been different people.

But Arthur wasn't.

Arthur had born out of the hollowness left by Arthur James' Reynolds' death. Because Arthur didn't like the color green. _(Arthur James Reynolds' eyes were green, and shining with laughter the instant before he died. The ghost of that laughter had still been in the ruins of his face)_ Arthur was born from fire and tears and shattered edges cobbled together with an old strength nearly forgotten _(…through Christ…strengthens me…won't let him…men of the house…)_

And Eames was an actor. He was the actor of actors and Arthur couldn't tell you exactly what made him that way.

There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.

The only words underlined on the page and that in itself was a distinction. Arthur didn't like to think about who or what it applied to.

…the only things one never regrets are ones' mistakes.

The words written around it were _Wouldn't it be a mistake to regret anything else? Maybe regret is something pointless in the first place. Anything you regret, you wanted at some point._

He played with the idea, and it grew willfull; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox.

That one had been Arthur's underline. He remembered that moment. Beneath it, Eames had said, _Sound familiar, darling?_ with a smiley face drawn beside it.

Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.

There was a long conversation there, continuing onto the next page. It started with a list, written in various times with various pens.

 _Exceptions: Mal. Mina. Emma. Sherallyn. Amara?_ The question mark is a hesitant thing, light and barely there. Then, at the very bottom of the list: _Ariadne._

At the end of the conversation, with an arrow addressing the part about mind over morals, Arthur had written, _Eames, you're an exception too._

_How wonderful of you to think so._

What they call their loyalty and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.

_("…good at what he does, right?"_

_"Oh, the best. But he's got no imagination. If you're going to do inception, you_ need _imagination.")_

Those had been the kind of new comments that Eames had made since the second inception. That Arthur was without imagination. At first, he had thought it simply teasing. But now, seeing that line, he snapped the book shut, a small flame of rage igniting in him at the insinuation.

_(But is Eames right? Had Arthur not been so damnably loyal to his brother, they would never be in this mess.)_

To define is to limit.

Those were the last lines underlined and even the line trails a little, like a last thought before bed. Or so he thought. He flipped through the rest of the book, but there were only a few words in his own handwriting. It was on his second flipthrough that he caught the true last underline.

I wish I could love. But I seem to have lost the passion, and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget.

Arthur thought about writing something on that, but he knew that, consciously, he was never meant to read it. That was the problem with books, he supposed. The words always felt like they were meant for you and only you.

So instead, he carefully underlined a sentence and dog-eared the page, a habit he knew that Eames didn't mind and that personally, Arthur hated, but it would draw Eames' attention.

Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be.  _Sound familiar, Eames?_


	21. Chapter 21

  
_Family quarrels have a total bitterness unmatched by others. Yet it sometimes happens that they also have a kind of_ tang _, a pleasantness beneath the unpleasantness, based on the tacit understanding that this is not for keeps; that any limb you climb out on will still be there later for you to climb back.  
~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960_  


* * *

**Arthur is a bad patient.**

Eames frowned as Arthur adjusted his leg, his _fractured_ leg. "Will you stop fiddling with it?"

Arthur shot him a dirty look. "Just because you can sit in one place and do essentially nothing all day, Eames, doesn't mean that I can."

"You're going to have to live with it. Doctor's orders." _(But Eames knows how well Arthur takes doctor's orders. Even when he was still recovering from the explosion, he hadn't rested. He'd been out pushing his limited limits)_

And this was only week two of the six to eight weeks of estimated recovery time.

Arthur was a man who liked being busy, who preferred it, even. But a fractured leg tended to put dents in plans like that. Eames leaned back in the armchair of the apartment Arthur had bought himself. _(Eames suspects it's a fairly permanent apartment this time since Arthur had been particularly careful about letting Eames know where it is. It isn't entirely furnished yet beyond the essentials. There are floor to ceiling bookshelves that are full, the couch is still missing a few small cushions and the kitchen had been almost entirely bare before Eames came with Arthur from the hospital since he has trouble moving by himself. Eames can't figure out if a bare kitchen is normal for Arthur or not)_

"You should really get yourself a TV, darling."

"I was going to," Arthur said and these days, there was a constant undertone of frustration that Eames suspected was directed at himself. "But that was when Oscar called about the job." And Arthur couldn't afford to not take a job right now.

The job that had gone bottoms up three quarters of the way in and Arthur and Eames had had to make a run for it because everyone knew that Arthur and Eames were the best at what they did, despite being relatively new to dreamwork. Arthur had made a break for it through a window, but had miscalculated the jump and landed badly on his leg. Eames had had to scoop him up into a stolen car and drive the man to lay low until the heat died down before driving him to a hospital.

Arthur would maintain for years that he would have been safer with the people coming after them than in a car with Eames in the driver's seat.

These were the first times they were actually _living_ together. Not sharing a motel room to save money on a job, but legitimately living together. Arthur would hobble his way from his bedroom to the living room and Eames had to stop him—sometimes physically—to keep him from moving so much. The bones wouldn't heal if he kept doing that.

They snapped and snarled at each other and Eames would never quite understand how Arthur managed to look down on him when he was sitting on the sofa; a special talent, perhaps. It was something a little like hell, but at the same time, not because there were moments of peace strung throughout and Eames liked going through Arthur's books, even if the extra ink on the pages confused him occasionally because Arthur's thoughts weren't always so linear.

It took Eames three weeks to figure out how Arthur's damned radio worked. It looked normal on the outside, but was apparently so dented and busted up that it took a special sequence of turning the knobs, gently smacking the sides and fiddling with the antenna to get any kind of recognizable music out of it.

"Darling, your entire collection of electronics needs to be updated," Eames informed him as he twirled the dial until he found a jazz station.

The point man leaned his head on the back of the couch more comfortably. "When you get the money for that, Eames, then be my guest."

Eames plopped himself down on the armchair—rapidly becoming one of his favorite spots—and said, "I'll hold you to your word on that."

**Arthur's secrecy isn't something unique.**

He found her in the museum parking lot. When she first saw him leaning against her car, he caught the instinctive motion into her purse, likely for pepper spray, but seeing as how it was Arthur's sister, it was just as likely that it was a gun. Then she recognized him and he saw her relax, minutely.

"Eames," Mina greeted, not unfriendly. She walked, all slender, smooth curves and cool confidence and how had some man not tried to marry her yet? "What're you doing here? Is Cameron okay?"

"He's fine," Eames assured her. They'd spoken over emails once or twice, when Arthur had left his laptop open and Eames had snuck in to type one up to her. "I'm here for something else."

She eyed him warily; it was a familiar sight because Arthur looked at him like that more than once. But her eyes were a lighter shade than her brother's _(It's been two months since he saw Arthur. It isn't a great expanse of time, but he hasn't even heard from him. He isn't surprised)_. "Did you plan to tell me about it any time before it gets dark?"

Eames smiled at her; she made it easy. "Let me treat you to dinner and I'll tell you about it."

Mina shrugged and unlocked her car. "Sure—I'm never one to turn down free food—but you're not driving."

"You've been listening to Ar—Cameron too much, sweetheart. I'm not that bad a driver." Nevertheless, he got himself into the passenger seat after moving the several sheafs of paper—Mina had never stopped drawing—and a book. Eames memorized the title automatically— _The Prestige_ -and he skimmed through the description on the back and thought that Arthur might rather like it _(But they aren't anything right now and he doesn't know if they ever will be again because Arthur wasn't this distant when they didn't even know each other)_

Mina smiled at him and there were icicles and poisoned honey in that smile. "I'll have to take your word for it. Where are we headed?"

"Do you trust me?" It was said playfully, but Eames wanted a serious answer. He doubted he would get one.

She glanced at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "Enough. I trust you enough, Mr. Eames."

_(Mina had picked up the habit of calling him that from Cameron. They visit sometimes, the two of them. Not often enough for Mom, but it's more visits than they got in six years. Cameron and Eames interact oddly and she can never tell exactly what their relationship is; it always seems to be in a constant state of flux)_

"Then hang a left here."

He directed them to a slightly more upscale restaurant—Arthur was rubbing off on him—and her eyebrows rose when she saw where they were. "Here? You certainly know how to treat a girl."

He came around and opened the door for her, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "My lady," he said with an exaggerated bow. _(He likes Mina, likes her for her similarities and especially for the glaring differences. Her and Arthur's wit is similar, but the lack of history between her and Eames adds spice. She's sharp-tongued and silver-laced like her brother—both of them—but she's refreshingly absent from anything involving warzones and dreams)_

After they were seated and their orders taken, Mina told him of her life right now. She mentioned that she'd been seeing someone—a junior high teacher—and that she hadn't gotten the chance to introduce him to them at Thanksgiving. Eames just grinned and told her that they hadn't wanted to scare off the boy _too_ quickly.

Once the food came, Mina uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on her forearms. It wasn't very ladylike, but she didn't care. "So, Eames, why don't you tell me why you trekked all the way out here just to talk."

"What makes you think this is so far away from where I live? I could live in Vermont for all you know."

Mina shook her head, a wave of dark hair falling over one shoulder. "No, you don't. Otherwise, you'd have driven a car here." She was a sharp one, was Wilhelmina Reynolds.

"Maybe I don't own a car."

"Which explains your terrible driving. Why're you here?"

"You won't believe for the pleasure of your company?"

"I'm sure that you don't have any trouble finding more pleasurable company than little ol' me." But her eyes didn't move from his face, steady and infinitely patient. She would wait as long as she needed for her answer.

Eames sighed, his left hand toying absently with the napkin in his lap. "…This a sensitive question. It's only fair I warn you."

"Spit it out, Eames. I'm not some china doll in an old lady's cupboard."

_(Eames' grandmother used to collect those, he remembers. They'd been in a room for themselves, one that didn't overlook the ocean)_

"...Tell me about your father."

He saw the walls slam up in her eyes, suddenly hard and frozen. Oh, she was Arthur's sister. "Why?"

"I thought you said you could take it."

"Eames, I'm telling you to drop this." Another Reynolds in another time had told Eames to drop the subject, but he hadn't listened. Perhaps, if he had, he wouldn't dream of his daughter lying dead with Arthur's mirror image standing above her.

"Wish I could, sweetheart." But Curiosity's silver-tinted smile beckons from beyond the Reynolds' faces.

Her eyes narrowed at him and he felt like she could lay his soul bare. "You asked Cameron about this, didn't you? That's why you're here without him."

"I might have."

"And if he didn't tell you, what makes you think I will?"

Instead of answering, Eames just repeated his question.

"Eames, our father—I haven't thought about that man in over ten years. What makes you think that I want anything to do with him?"

"…Is he alive?" Despite having found documents, Eames had been able to find little on the actual man.

"In a manner of speaking."

"What happened? With him."

Mina shook her head. "I'm not doing this." She stood up from the table, slipping her purse over her head so that it went across her torso and said, "Get your own ride back to the airport or wherever. I'm going home; don't follow me. Thanks for dinner."

_(He should have known this was going to happen, but he cannot leave things be. He doesn't even know why this is so important, but the part of him that wants to know is an old part, one that's gotten him into this situation before and he thought he'd learned to learn from his mistakes)_

**Arthur isn't a bad dancer.**

They were enjoying Mal's birthday celebration—twenty-six years old, _"You're getting old," Eames teased and Mal had smirked back. "You're only as old as you feel."_ —when Frank Sinatra came on; he was one of Mal's favorite singers. She smiled at Arthur, "Ask a girl to dance?"

Arthur had returned the smile and stood, going around the table. _(He can't ever say no to Mal)_ "No, but I'd ask a lady. Care for a dance?"

Eames had chuckled a little because Arthur could be charming if he wanted to be. Mal had taken his hand and stood up and they danced right there in the restaurant, twirling and laughing to _Come Fly with Me_. Mal was a vision in a dress the color of a good, candlelit red wine, her hair loose about her face and Arthur in one of the few suits he owned at the time. The restaurant had stared at them a little before one or two couples stood and danced as well. One woman even asked Eames to dance and he'd indulged her because why not?

After the song finished and everyone clapped, whoever was in charge of the songs put on _I Love Paris_. Eames had given Mal and Arthur his best aw-shucks smile. "Do I not get a dance?"

Mal had laughed and taken his hands while Arthur rolled his eyes, the flush of the dance still in his cheeks, his hair a little disheveled and smile still tugging at his lips as he went to sit. Eames caught his eye on a turn and Arthur had toasted him a little with his drink before taking a sip.

Afterwards, while the three of them were walking back to the hotel because it was a nice night, Eames had looked at Arthur and said, "You owe me a dance, darling."

And Arthur just said, "One day, maybe."

**Arthur may be a good godfather, but he doesn't know how to be an uncle.**

Arthur and Eames watched Arthur Bishop—Arthur's nephew _(and it's a real kick in the gut, the name, but Mina had looked so proud when she'd declared it)—_ grow up mostly through a laptop screen. Mina sent pictures at least once a month, ever since that first week after they went to the birth and she told her brother the name of her son.

_(Arthur can't blame her. She doesn't know about this other life and he isn't the only one who misses Arthur James Reynolds)_

Eames saw the photos as well and sometimes, it made his hand twitch towards his locket because he missed his little girl. The one who was in college by now, according to Sheral. Oxford. _"Her professors lover her," Sheral said the last time they spoke on the phone. "They've called me to tell me that."_ And Eames had asked what she was studying—Amara could study anything, he knew. She was smart like that—and Sheral told him quietly, _"Law enforcement. She wants to go into Interpol."_

That had led to a small argument because after all these years, Eames hadn't told Sheral where the money he sent her came from, hadn't told her anything of what he did.

_"Do you think I'm stupid, Allen? Or that she is? Do you think we can't tell that whatever you're doing is less than legal?"_

_"It's not illegal." And it wasn't, not technically. The military hadn't publicized anything about the dreamworking project. Arthur and Eames were wanted for 'stealing government property', no Sheral had phrased it right. Dreamworking wasn't legal either._

_Sheral had sighed. "Just tell me that it's not dangerous. Like getting shot at every day."_

_"It's not." And Eames hadn't even lied. They were only shot at in real life on bad days._

Eames thanked whatever higher power was listening that brown eyes were a dominant trait. Arthur Bishop's eyes were pale brown _(Thankfully not hazel because hazel eyes had a tendency to shift to green in the right lights)_ and he grinned like his father and smiled like his uncles—one of whom he could never meet and the other who didn't drop into Brooklyn, New York all that often. His hair was as dark as his mother's, but Mina kept it too short to know if it would curl or not.

_He's smart like you wouldn't believe, Cameron. And he's a smartass._

There was a gap after that sentence, a gaping one. And Eames could guess what belonged there—like Arthur James Reynolds was.

Sometimes, Mina sent videos. The first steps, first day at school—rolled eyes and ' _Mooom, I'm too old for that!_ ' as she kissed his forehead. She tried to get her brother to visit, tried telling him that gifts at Christmas and birthdays weren't enough.

Eames never tells Arthur that he should go see his nephew once in a while. It would only be an exercise in hypocrisy.


	22. Chapter 22

_"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"  
William Shakespeare-Merchant of Venice_

* * *

**As far as the world is concerned, Allen Reed didn't exist until he was fourteen years old.**

There are few photographs of Allen Reed before his wedding day and few after that. Only a handful of those survive and they exist in the home of Sherallyn Evans in Edinburgh.

Arthur pays her a visit one Thursday in the late afternoon. Sherallyn doesn't open the door all the way, staying behind it warily as she inspects him. "Can I help you?"

Arthur puts on a mask easily; perhaps Eames has been rubbing off on him. _(The rage—hot and blue and fierce—was still there, burning beneath the surface, but he knew that, going through with this, he no longer had high ground to stand on. That was alright. This would get the point across)_ "Sherallyn, right? I'm sorry to call like this—I'm Arthur. I work with Allen—and he asked me to come here to give you something. Might I come in?"

Sherallyn hesitates for a moment. "You were at my sister's wedding."

"Yes. How is Anne by the way?"

"Loving the married life." Sherallyn takes a step back to allow him through the door. "Allen didn't mention that you'd be coming."

Arthur gives her a sympathetic smile. "Poor guy—he's been overloaded with work lately. It's why he couldn't come to deliver this himself." Arthur hands her a check that contains the usual amount that Eames sends her. "The bank's been having problems with their wire transfers lately," he says in explanation.

Sherallyn takes the check, looking over it carefully. _(She didn't speak her suspicions on where this money had come from, if this check was even real. The restaurant she'd inherited from her parents was doing good enough business that she didn't necessarily_ need _this money anymore, but she kept it for Amara)_ "Thank you…I'm sorry for my manners."

"It's quite alright," Arthur assures her. "Actually, may I use your bathroom?"

"Sure. Down the hall, second door on the left. Want some coffee?"

"Yes please."

Arthur makes towards the bathroom, but kept an eye on Sherallyn. Once she'd disappeared into the kitchen, he goes looking in the other rooms in the part of the house for any evidence. Eames is a careful man; Arthur had only found this house after a week and a half of dead ends and there are no records connecting Eames to Allen Reed and therefore Sherallyn. And Allen Reed hardly existed at all.

He finds photos in what seemed to be an office. One is of their wedding, fading and a little dusty. Eames looks younger than Arthur had ever known him, clean-shaven and dressed in a tuxedo—probably the nicest he's ever dressed for anything—and Sherallyn is radiant in her smile.

There is another of Sherallyn and Anne, sitting in some London pub, toasting some long-gone event.

One photo—older than the others, a Polaroid that's vaguely yellowed, its edges worn and soft—shows two boys on a door stoop. Eames is smiling cheekily, an apron tied round his waist. His hair had been longer then. The boy beside him is caught mid-laughter, a dimple in his left cheek and eyes bright even in a photograph. His clothes are worn, his pants too short at the ankle and sweater a size too big. He looks almost too thin; they both do.

_(Arthur won't ever be able to connect Charlie Anderson's name with this face and Eames won't ever tell him)_

Arthur knows he doesn't have long, so he takes pictures of the photos with the camera on his phone, careful to keep the volume on silent. He takes pictures of the room before leaving and ducks into the room across the hall as well.

This is a girl's room, he knows right away. It isn't obvious; no pink bedspread or ballerina wallpaper. But there are feminine touches. The clothes hanging in the closet. The hair accessories on the dresser, the faint whiff of perfume. A bedspread that's dark red with soft gold paisley designs. _(Amara's room for certain and Arthur wondered if Eames' taste for paisley was his own or something that had rubbed off from someone else)_ An old plaid pillow is tossed on the bed and there are stacks of books everywhere in the room and, when Arthur inspects them, they're mostly classics, but there are several crime novels as well.

He takes a single general picture of the room, not sure what he can use it for, but it's better to need it and not have it.

Arthur goes into the bathroom and flushes the toilet, pretending to have just come out when Sherallyn come out. "Arthur?"

Arthur smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. Seems something at lunch didn't quite go down right."

"It happens." Sherallyn holds out the mug and Arthur takes a sip.

"Thank you." He finishes the coffee quickly and makes his excuses before leaving. Sherallyn will likely tell Eames about this in their next phone conversation, but that's alright. He has what he came for.

_(It wasn't much, to be honest. No public records to connect anything. But the photos are more than enough since there was documentation of Allen Reed's marriage and divorce two years later. For Arthur's purposes, it was enough.)_

**Eames was a sniper once.**

Arthur was a good shot. In truth, probably a great shot. He preferred accuracy over 'American style shooting', as Arthur James Reynolds put it once after he'd watched _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_ once too many times. _"Very American. Fire enough bullets and hope to hit the target."_

But Eames was a better shot with the right gun, even if he didn't really do that anymore. Not in reality anyway. He was meant for back-up, to look after the others. He was good at it and as good at camouflage as he was, he was suited to it.

**Eames is sometimes beyond definition.**

"I think I'd be a Ravenclaw," Phillipa announced one lazy Fourth of July. It had started to rain early in the afternoon and had yet to stop, so any plans of a barbeque and fireworks were out.

Arthur thought about it. "I can see that."

Phillipa stretched out her legs—she was getting so tall, already twelve years old. She grinned at her godfather. "What would you be?"

Eames considered it from across the room where he'd been dozing in an armchair. They'd watched a _Star Wars_ marathon on TV and he'd fallen asleep during Episode One. He preferred the originals anyway. "Hmm…I could see Gryffindor."

Phillipa arched an eyebrow—a student of Arthur's School of Skeptics, she was. "Brave? Uncle Arthur?"

Eames grinned a little. "What, you don't think so?"

Phillipa looked her godfather over, saw the trousers and rumpled shirt. _(She doesn't know about the Marines, doesn't know about the dog tag that he's careful to keep tucked away when he's here. He doesn't bring a gun inside with him and she's never seen the scar on his side)_ "No. Not brave. Not really, though you have the chivalry part down."

Arthur chuckled. "What do you think then? Hufflepuff?"

_(It suits him, but they all do to a point, Eames thinks. But Hufflepuff knows him, knows his loyalty and his work ethic, knows his protectiveness)_

"No way—they're lame—you'd be with me, in Ravenclaw."

Arthur hummed. "The blue, is it?" He looked over at Eames. "What do you think? Do you think blue's my color?"

_(There is a specific shirt of Arthur's that Eames happens to like very much. It's the color of the deep ocean and it works on him very nicely and Arthur is evil for bringing it up now)_

Eames smiled at him, closer to a baring of teeth. "Try green. It goes better with your skin tone."

"That's crazy, Uncle Eames. He couldn't fit in in Slytherin. He's too nice for that."

And Arthur just smiled angelically _(It doesn't hurt anymore, to see that smile, doesn't remind Eames of glass splinters and shattered mirrors and a locket dangling from a slender hand)_. "Yes, don't be crazy, Eames."

Phillipa beamed at Eames. "You could be in Slytherin though. Or Gryffindor. You like pulling pranks on people. And you've got nerve— _maman_ always said so—" _(They hadn't known that she remembers such a trivial detail about Mal. They're not sure how to feel about that)_ "But you're clever too."

"So which am I? Lion? Or snake?"

"Snake," Phillipa and Arthur said in unison.

"I love you both," Eames said sourly.

_(In truth, Arthur thought that Eames wouldn't do so well in Hogwarts. Too many boxes.)_

Dom called Phillipa to help her brother set the table—it's ridiculously domestic and Eames made a mental note to tease Dom about it later—and Eames looked over at Arthur, still slouched in his favorite spot on the sofa."Hufflepuff?"

Arthur's smile had old touches of bitterness to it. "Fitting, don't you think?"

Eames crossed over to sit on the edge of the couch cushions. "You don't get to try and make Hufflepuff look cool, darling."

Arthur laughed a little—it was here, in this house, that he did that the most. The sound was soaked into the floors and walls—and grinned a little, daring. _(It's here that he is both more and less like the person Eames knew in the early days of their acquaintance. He seems younger here, but less serious most of the time, more like he was with Mal, indulging and loving and sweet and utterly hers)_ "I just did."

Dom called them three seconds later—hot dogs could still be made in a pot of boiling water, as they'd discovered—and Eames brushed a kiss against Arthur's lips as he stood, offering Arthur a hand up. "Come on. Can't keep them waiting."

**Eames is stubborn when he wants to be, almost as stubborn as Arthur.**

Arthur was sitting at the dining table that doubled as a desk—he didn't use the table for eating very often anyway—when he read the email.

_Cameron,_

_I don't know what the hell happened with you and Eames, but figure it out. He came by today, took me to dinner. And then he asked about our father. He's probably left Vermont by now—he doesn't seem like the type to hang around much—but I figured you should know._

_Before you ask—no, I didn't tell him anything. I got up and left. I'm staying at mom's house for the weekend, just in case Eames has the balls to go ask her about this. But you should deal with Eames, I don't care how, but I'm sure you can come up with a few ways._

_-Mina_

The rage flared, hot and fierce and blue and Arthur wanted to find Eames just to punch him. Eames had done a lot of things, but this was something different even than looking up those documents. Very different.

Saito called him the next day about a job offer. Arthur could only tell him, "Sorry, I've got something I need to finish dealing with."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur doesn't believe in turning the other cheek.

* * *

_"Revenge is a confession of pain."  
-Latin Proverb_

* * *

**Arthur almost had a sister-in-law.**

Ariadne was in Boston for a friend's wedding, but she'd chosen to stay an extra week on the condition that Arthur and Eames met her so that they could spend the day together. She embraced them both upon seeing them. After all, it had been almost six months since her graduation.

Ariadne refused to let Eames drive, which made Arthur grateful. Eames looked at Arthur in the backseat, frowning. "Spreading rumors about me, darling?" He looked back at Ariadne. "I'm not that bad, honestly."

"Eames, I would be very surprised if you did anything honestly," Ariadne said while leading them through Boston.

"Do you know where you're going?" Arthur asked. In high school, a bunch of them would come down to Boston for concerts and he still came to the city fairly often for jobs and layovers, but he knew it well enough to traverse it.

"I thought we'd go to the Saint Anthony's Festival," she said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. She wondered if Arthur ever dressed casually outside of a dream. She had yet to see it. Even now, when they weren't on a job, he still wore a button shirt with a waistcoat and his trousers still looked far too neat for him to have gotten off of a train. "The person next to me on the plane recommended it."

"I forget that you're the type of person to actually converse with your fellow passengers," Eames said, shifting so that he was partially facing Ariadne.

"I've seen you do it," she pointed out. "Actually, I've seen the both of you do it."

A grin made its way across Eames' lips. "Well, in truth, Arthur only does it when he has to. Too antisocial, this one."

Arthur snorted. "Right. And you only flirt with everyone on the plane to mess with them."

"I'm shocked that you would have such a low opinion of me, darling."

"It shouldn't come as a shock; I've had a low opinion of you since day one."

Ariadne grinned and swallowed a laugh. _(She doesn't know what to call them. They're friends of hers, certainly, but she doesn't know what they are in relation to each other. Sometimes, they're like this, easy, teasing and familiar and other times, there is weight between them, heavy threads like wool hung with cobwebs and lead that lets her know that something's not right)_

* * *

 

The festival took up quite a bit of space. People were packed into streets, the tops of the tents and booths hardly visible. Rich aromas wafted through the city smell—a mixture of sewage, concrete, cigarette smoke and stagnant water—and somewhere in the mess of people, Eames spotted a statue of what he assumed was St. Anthony with a child in his arms.

Arthur bought some food from a vendor, thanking them in Italian while trying to keep a hold of the food handed to him in a very large paper towel. He found Ariadne and prodded with his pinky, the only appendage he could free up.

Ariadne eyed the food in his hands. It was fried…something, shaped into a ball. "What is it?"

"Arancino," Arthur replied easily. "Fried risotto with…I got two of cheese, two with spinach and the rest are with meat, stuffed inside."

"How do you know which one's which?"

Eames reached over Arthur's right shoulder and plucked one of the arancino out of the paper towel. "It's a mystery; that's half the fun." He took a bite and, after chewing thoughtfully, he declared it was spinach. "Want to try it?"

Ariadne shrugged and took a bite from Eames, humming in pleasure as the warm taste filled her mouth. They shared flavors with each other until they'd all tried everything and Ariadne bought the three of them a few bottles of water. It was pushing past warm and into hot, as it was August, but with the throng of people, it felt even worse and the humidity didn't help.

Ariadne had ducked into one of the shops on the street for the bathroom when Eames heard it.

"Cameron?"

He saw the flicker across Arthur's face that said he'd heard it too, but they both pretended not to hear and kept to their spot outside the store, eyes wary of pickpockets.

"Cameron Rey—'scuse me—Cameron Reynolds?" A woman pushed her way to them. She was girl-next-door pretty, with dark curls pulled back into a high ponytail and pale blue eyes that seemed larger than they were because of the glasses perched on a pert nose. She wore her purse diagonally across her torso, her tank top hugging her hips and her shorts fit well on her thighs, going to a little above the knee. "Hey, is that—is that you, Cameron?"

The moment Arthur turned to look at her, Eames saw something flash across his eyes. Recognition and perhaps a moment of guilt, gone as soon as it came. "…April?"

She smiled and instantly she was no longer that plain sort of pretty, but something just short of breathtaking. "Damn, Cameron, how long's it been? Like ten years, isn't it?"

_(She doesn't know this man. She knows his face, knows the planes of it, even though it's older than she remembers it. She doesn't know the trousers or the waistcoat, doesn't know the gelled hair that's curling a bit from the humidity. She doesn't know the way he stands, shoulders back, almost-casual. She doesn't know this man at all)_

The momentary guilt returned and went away _(Because he isn't Cameron anymore, but Arthur still thinks in Cameron terms sometimes before reality sets back in)_. "April—"

"Don't start. It-it was a long time ago."

Eames glanced up and down the woman, reading her. A hesitancy in the distance relative to Arthur, but familiarity in the way they spoke. A ring on her finger, shined regularly, as well as two earrings that were small squares of sea glass that threw exotic shadows across her neck, but there was an old woven bracelet on her wrist, faded and sun-stained and, when it shifted, there was a tan line to match. Something that meant quite a bit to her, something old. Ten years old, perhaps?

Ten years ago, Arthur didn't exist yet. Ten years ago, he was still Cameron, a Marine with a brother and a mother and sister and, apparently, a girlfriend. A girlfriend who'd been waiting for him to come home from the military—with his brother's body, logically—and waited for a man who never came home, for a man who died and become someone else in the process.

"How-how've you been? What've you been doing?"

"…I'm a lawyer." It was an old lie, an easy lie and one that matched up with what his family knew. "I came to visit a client and thought I'd stay for this." _(And Cameron would have asked what happened to her, so Arthur asks, the voice and expression coming out interested and genuine-looking, but Eames can tell the difference)_ "What about you?"

April shrugged, smiling a little and there was a touch of mischief. "I got out of Vermont. Didn't go far, y'know, but I like it here. I'm in graphic design. Thought about going to New York, but…didn't feel right."

Arthur's eyes went to the ring on her finger. "Where's your husband?"

April rolled her eyes. "He got himself lost. I told him I'd meet him down by the statue and I was on my way there when I saw you."

_(She doesn't ask what happened to him, why Cameron never came back to Vermont—not that she would really have been asking about him. She sees someone else when she looks at him, someone who can't come back)_

Eames caught Ariadne making her way through the store and knew he needed to intercept her before she got here and found this. She didn't know about Cameron, didn't know about Arthur James Reynolds or Arthur's military days and she was better off for it. So he excused himself and slipped his way into the store, curving a hand round her waist and distracting her easily.

_("So who's he then? Your husband?" It's said with a gently teasing smile, but she's close enough to the truth to be too close for comfort._

_Cameron chuckles. "No, no. He's a coworker and a friend."_

_"…Were you with him? At the end?" Because she knows that if there is one thing that Arthur James Reynolds would have wanted, it would have been that._

_Cameron hesitates and Arthur answers. "Yes."_

_"…I'm sorry."_

_There's a twist of lips that is more Arthur than Cameron, but April can't ever know that. "So am I.")_

* * *

 

Eames waited until the hotel room, long after they'd separated from Ariadne, to say anything. _(Arthur has to give him a few points in that department. He'd been waiting for it ever since they got out of Ariadne's earshot)_

"Old flame?" Eames asked, though it sounded more like a statement. Eames wasn't jealous and in that, he was honest. Arthur and Cameron were two separate people. There was no point to jealousy.

Arthur glanced over at him. "Good guess, but no."

Eames didn't ask—he wasn't good at that, as curious as he was—but Arthur heard the question and this time, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to answer. Arthur grabbed a towel and started unbuttoning his waistcoat absently with his free hand. He was hot and sweaty and all he wanted right now was a shower.

"My brother's girlfriend." Eames didn't say anything, splayed on the bed comfortably, unwilling to move. He wasn't sure when they'd gotten to the point where they could discuss this without flinching, but he liked it. "…They were engaged."

Eames' eyebrows shot up. "Engaged?"

"Unofficially." Arthur was in the bathroom now and his voice echoed a little. "…He was going to ask her when he got back."

Eames could imagine. A boy soldier promising to come back to his sweetheart. Only, neither of the brothers had ever made it home. The only thing to come back to Vermont was a body that was a mirror missing its reflection.

The words were out of his mouth before he made the decision to speak. "Arthur James Reynolds, leaving a string of broken hearts behind him."

There was no response to that. Eames hadn't expected one.

**Arthur is a visual learner.**

Eames had grown up with knives and he tended to have a switchblade on his person, for emergencies. When he was feeling fidgety or needed something to do with his hands, he liked flipping the knife on his knuckles, a trick that Charlie Anderson had taught him.

He'd noticed Arthur watching him, but Arthur was paranoid— _"It's not paranoia if people are actually out to get you, Mr. Eames."_ —and observant, so really, it wasn't anything new. It wasn't until Arthur handed him a file and Eames caught sight of the backs of Arthur's hands that anything seemed strange.

"Did you recently acquire a cat, darling?"

Arthur eyed him strangely. "No."

With his free hand, Eames took Arthur's wrist and turned it so that his hand was palm down. On the back of his hand were small nicks and a recent rather thin scratch on the side of his thumb. Eames knew those kinds of injuries, had had them himself once upon a time, though the scars had long ago faded.

Eames looked up at Arthur. "Learning new tricks?"

"Learned," the point man corrected. "Learned a new trick."

Eames gave him back his hand and sat back, crossing his legs in waiting.

Arthur sighed and slipped a hand in his pocket, pulling out a folding blade. He opened it and made it dance across his knuckles. "Satisfied?"

"I am impressed."

He gave him a look as he put the knife away. "Your condescension is much appreciated, Mr. Eames."

**Arthur isn't good with cars.**

He found the broken down car on the side of a lonely New Mexican road. He pulled over and walked to the front of the car—nondescript, Dodge, Arizona license plate. He smiled when he recognized the person beneath the hood.

"A small world, isn't it, darling?"

Arthur poked his head out from underneath the hood. His hair was longer, Eames noted, long enough to curl a bit now that it wasn't military short. He looked annoyed and frustrated, sweat soaking the back of his shirt, his dog tags dangling out of his collar. Eames had thrown his aside once they'd gotten far enough away; they'd only help people identify him easier.

"Small world, my ass. You were following me."

"I would never. I was actually on my way to Texas for a job."

Arthur snorted. "Right."

"You should be more polite to people who can help you. Unless you can fix that car yourself."

"Are you a mechanic now too, Mr. Eames?" Still, he backed up a few steps, giving Eames space to see whatever had happened to the car he'd gotten cheap off of someone back in Arizona. It didn't even have air conditioning, but Arthur hadn't been in a position to complain. Money wasn't an easy thing to come by.

"I'm a man of many talents," Eames told him as he ducked under the hood. "…What did you do to this car, darling?"

"It came to me like that."

"Uh-huh. You might as well get comfortable; this could take a while." Arthur held out his hand for Eames' keys. Eames gave him a look. "After what I'm seeing in this car, I don't want you anywhere near mine."

"Eames, I've been driving for the past six hours in the desert without air conditioning." Arthur decided that, when he got the money, there would be no living near deserts for him. He'd gotten enough of the desert in Iraq. Someplace where it snowed, perhaps, because he'd rather be too cold than too hot.

Eames chuckled and dropped the keys in Arthur's palm. "You have my sympathies."

Arthur slid into the driver's seat and turned the car on, leaning back a little as the cold AC blasted. If he hadn't had to run that job in Utah, he wouldn't be here right now, but at least now he had a little bit more money and if Eames actually managed to get the car running again, he'd probably have enough to make it to Arkansas, maybe even Tennessee, sniff out a few more jobs there and find a motel to lay low in. And there was no desert out there.

He didn't notice when he nodded off, but he did notice when he felt a presence nearby and he found himself reaching for the gun at the small of his back.

"Going to shoot me after all I did for you? That's cold." But Eames had his hands up in innocence. A spooked soldier was dangerous.

"Jesus, Eames," he said, stowing away the gun. Then Eames' words registered. "It's fixed?"

"No need for such surprise."

Somehow, Arthur thought that Eames would always find a way to surprise him. "How do you know so much about cars?"

Eames' smile had a strange twist to it. "Some of us did actually have lives before the military, Arthur. We didn't just appear out of nowhere like some people."

Arthur slipped slowly out of the car, reluctant to leave the air conditioning. "So why were you following me?"

"I wasn't lying; there's a job in Texas. They asked if I knew a good point man. I told them I did."

"And how did you find me?"

"You're getting popular. The point man who doesn't look old enough to shave."

"Did someone actually say that to you?"

"I may be paraphrasing." The words were said with a shrug and the tug of a smirk on his lips.

"…What's the job?"

Eames grinned. "That's the spirit, darling."

**Arthur doesn't believe in turning the other cheek.**

The day came when Eames let himself into his Nairobi apartment and Arthur was sitting in his living room, perfectly nonchalant as though he hadn't told Eames to leave and not so much as contacted him for four months.

_(Eames is immediately on edge because this isn't simply Arthur sitting there. There is a subtle violence to him, like a rip current. Invisible on the outside, but deadly.)_

"How did you get in?" Eames asked. He'd changed the lock two months ago.

"A thief once taught me how to pick a lock."

Eames supposed he'd been asking for that answer. "Better question—why are you here?"

"Because I knew you'd show up here sooner or later. Thankfully it was sooner."

"And why were you waiting for me?" Eames didn't move from the entryway, though he closed the door behind him. No need to disturb the neighbors with this.

Arthur's eyes—slightly iced over like winter's first frost—looked him up and down before settling on his face. "You can relax; I'm not here to kill you."

And Eames did, marginally, because Arthur was a man of his word. But just because he wasn't here to kill him—a slightly irrational thought, but if he'd known Arthur to be anything, it was unpredictable and deadly _(A part of his mind is wary of the constant threat of insanity that dreamworkers faced. Anything could make them snap, but he'd always thought Arthur beyond that)_ —didn't mean that he isn't here to hurt him.

_(It hurts that this is where they are now, but Eames has lived this long only because he isn't good at trusting people. Arthur has always been a peculiar case and look where that's gotten him)_

"So then, darling, why come now? Surely it isn't because you miss me." Eames left his wallet on the table and, after a half a second of hesitation, his keys as well. If Arthur had wanted to hurt him physically, he'd likely have done it by now. He crossed the room to get an apple in the kitchen.

Arthur propped himself on the back of the couch, long and lean. He was wearing a waistcoat and button shirt that was neatly pressed, the crease still visible on his trousers, his hair gelled, but still curling a little. He'd come for business, but it was personal business. "I know you, Eames," he began. "I know you and I know that you are too damn curious for your own good."

_(…talked to him…brother…survivor's guilt…real)_

Eames took a bite of the apple, bracing a shoulder against the wall and listening intently.

"I should've known that there was no stopping you from checking up on me."

"If this is an apology, you can get to the point."

Arthur's eyes flashed up to his, hard and stubborn, but it's a hot anger, none of the chill that had been there earlier. "I don't have anything to apologize for—"

"That's a matter of opinion."

Arthur ignored him. " _As I was saying_ , there's no stopping you. So I'm not going to try." He inclined his head in the direction of the dining room. "There's something on the table for you."

Eames narrowed his eyes at him over the apple, suspicious, but went to the table. There was a file half an inch thick, neat and without a label. He set the apple down, flipped the file open and froze.

"You bastard." He looked back at Arthur, who seemed utterly unrepentant.

"You come after me looking for information, Eames, I come after you. Or rather, let me rephrase," Arthur stood upright, crossing to stand in front of Eames, shoulders back and head high, despite being shorter by a few scant inches. "If you want to know something about me, look for it yourself or hell, ask, but _do not_ get my sister involved in this."

"I didn't involve her—I went to talk to her. This," Eames shook the file and it was good to have something to do with his hands. "Is different, Arthur. This—"

"It's not different. It's exactly the same."

And it was, that's the part that needled at Eames. Arthur wouldn't go beyond what he had to do to get back at people, wasn't going to go overboard. If Eames went to Mina, Arthur was more than willing to go to Sheral or to Amara because it was the same.

_(Because Arthur is a protective and vengeful son of a bitch and this is just a warning, Eames is sure)_

"Dig into my past all you want, Eames. Just think about the consequences when you do." Arthur stepped back—it wasn't a backing down or backing off. It could never be that easy—and turned to leave. When he was at the door, without turning, he said, "And I have backup copies of everything in that folder, just in case you get any ideas."


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

_  
_   


_"Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note 'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars/ But in ourselves.' Easy enough to say when you're a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare) but there is no shortage of fault amid our stars."  
-John Green (The Fault in Our Stars)_

* * *

**Eames is manipulative, even if it's unconscious.**

Three and a half months since the confrontation in Nairobi and Arthur found Eames leaning against the wall just beside the door to his Chicago apartment. Arthur had just come back from Vermont—he'd been visiting Mina more often since Eames went to go talk to her. It helped settle Arthur's old paranoia—and he shrugged the strap of his duffel bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

Eames looked up at him, wary, but said nothing. He hoped Arthur's temper had cooled, but it wasn't a guarantee.

"…I didn't change the lock."

The left corner of Eames' lip upturned in a bitter almost-smile. It didn't suit him. "I wouldn't know. Haven't tried to get in." Because if he had tried, he'd be inside already, probably in his favorite armchair with a warm cup of tea and not out here in the corridor. "Invasion of privacy and all that."

And wasn't that what had started this in the first place?

Arthur looked him over, searching for any injuries. Finding none, he said, "Social call then, is it?"

"Of a sort." Seeing that he wasn't about to be kicked to the curb, Eames stood up, bones cracking and creaking, bad leg protesting a little from being down there too long.

Arthur unlocked the door and slipped inside. Eames already knew the routine without looking. Shoes off and placed neatly by the door, keys, wallet and phone on the dining table that was used for just about everything except dining and to the bedroom to put the duffel bag.

He was almost right. Arthur did everything but the last, setting the duffel on the floor by the table leg and turning to Eames expectantly.

"…I should commend you." Arthur frowned at him, not understanding. "I knew you'd hide the things connecting you to your father, but I never thought you'd get rid of the evidence so thoroughly, even through your mother and sister's channels. It took me days to muddle through your detours."

"There's a reason for all those detours." The anger had simmered so that at least, Arthur could listen to him. It was a start.

"I know." Eames pulled out one of the dining table chairs and sat, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. "Arthur…why is your father in prison?" That information by itself had been an ordeal to find. Arthur had changed his father's name, his records, so that there was very little connecting them.

"Didn't you find that out?" Arthur asked coldly. His walls were up, his posture almost military again.

"I thought I'd ask, since you so kindly suggested it." _(They won't apologize, either of them, because neither of them feels that what they did is wrong. Besides, neither of them is very good at apologies)_

Eames knew that the only reason Arthur would even consider answering was because they both knew each other's limits now, how far they'll go and what they're not willing to risk. Arthur didn't want Mina involved for whatever reason and short of shooting him or ratting him out to whichever multi-million company was after his head now, Arthur couldn't stop Eames from finding her. _(Arthur won't rat him out—his loyalty goes deep—but Eames hasn't ruled out the shooting)_

Arthur hadn't moved, rooted to the spot and for the first time in years, Eames couldn't tell if it was rage going on beneath the surface or some other emotion. Finally, Arthur yanked out a chair and fell into it.

"Fuck you, Eames," he said tiredly, a hint of fire still tugging at his words. "You and your damn curiosity."

Eames had a hundred comebacks to that, but now was not the time for any of them. "Arthur?"

He raked a hand through his hair, dragging his hand down his neck until his fingers were playing with his dog tags. He could lie, but there would be little point at this juncture. "…My father was…he was a dirty cop. But the police were onto him, I guess—I never learned the exact reason why he started drinking. It was a little bit at a time, y'know? At first it was just one drink. Then two…we'd usually be in bed by the time he had any more.

"One night…he gets home earlier than usual. We were having dinner with his partner in the force—nothing unusual. It was supposed to start at seven…six thirty rolled around and he was already drunk." His voice was clearer now, not hesitant or stumbling. An old rage was fueling him and Eames almost didn't want to know where this was going. "Mom tried to get him to stop. Said it was too early to be drinking like that and that he'd be a bad host."

Arthur fists clenched tight, knuckles white, his eyes tight. "He didn't like that. It was the first time he ever hit her—that we saw, but I think it was the first time period. Mom…she's not a woman who takes things lying down." Yes, Eames could imagine that. And she'd passed that trait to her children, all three of them. "She fought back, told him to take a walk to sober up."

He paused then and his fingers didn't move from the tags, tracing the name. "Mina was…eight maybe. She came running into the room, wanted to show him something," _("Daddy, look!")_ "She got his attention. He went for her—"

_(Arthur James Reynolds grabs her arm, yanks her away from the line of fire. "Mina, go hide," he tells her and she's staring up at them, all big eyes and fright and Mom's trying to hold him back, but she's never been a tall woman and the next thing he knows, he sees Arty moving and he follows, always his shadow. They're scrawny and skinny and all of thirteen and William Scott Reynolds is a tall man, lean and muscular…)_

"Arthur?"

The point man glanced up and there were old memories written on his face, in his eyes. "We managed to stop him from getting to her." _(All it cost was a broken wrist, a bruised cheek and a bloody lip, finger bruises on arms and always always Mina's big eyes back behind the couch and Mom grabs one of the umbrellas from by the door, the big one that can cover all of them and she swings it like a baseball player…)_

"His partner and his wife walked in on it all. His partner managed to get him down, knock him out. His wife called for a squad car."

The story stopped there, abrupt and unfinished, but Eames knew he'd likely never hear what happened afterward, but he could guess. Emma Reynolds had three kids to raise and a mortgage to pay on a teacher's salary. The twins would grow almost over-protective and get part-time jobs to help pay the bills. No money for university, they would have joined the military. And the rest, as they say, was history.

Arthur met Eames' eyes and the forger was hard pressed to say what emotions he found there, but there was an iciness there that Eames hadn't seen before, one that was very different from the Point Man. "Satisfied, Mr. Eames?"

Eames wanted to make a joke, wanted to say something clever that could make Arthur laugh or roll his eyes at him, but he knew nothing would do that right now. "…Thank you, darling." For there really was nothing left to say.

_(He wants to want to apologize, wants to comfort Arthur, but he knows that the point man will accept nothing of the sort, will snarl at him because he's still angry, but the anger is belied by tiredness and old memories and right now, Eames has no place here, so all he can do is get up and leave quietly)_

**Eames doesn't like modern war movies.**

Arthur fell asleep to one of Eames' romantic comedies—he had a strange fondness of them for which he blamed Sheral—but he woke to yelling and music found only in epic scenes. He woke instinctively at the yelling and Eames apparently felt it because the warm arm around his shoulders settled a little more firmly, the familiar hand keeping him from leaping to his feet.

Arthur squinted at the screen, too bright after the darkness of the inside of his eyelids. "… _The Last Samurai_?"

"Top marks, darling." Eames hand moved a little higher to toy with Arthur's hair, an old habit.

"Thought you don't like war movies?"

Eames looked down at him. He'd never said as much, but Arthur was good at keeping things close to the vest. "…This one's well before our time and it's more than simply the war."

Arthur could agree. _(The samurai believe in loyalty, in honor. Arthur knows how hard it is to keep up both)_ "I'm going back to sleep," he warned. He'd been tired before, but now, he simply was too comfortable to move. It was strange to have this kind of day.

Even though he couldn't see it, he could sense the smirk on Eames' lips. "Being lazy? How unlike you."

"Shut up, Eames."

**Eames doesn't ever leave for good, physically or otherwise.**

The first time they see each other in five months. It's not such a long period of time—they've certainly gone longer without speaking—but the gap is something palpable. They aren't broken. Not like before. _(Quicksilver…shaking voice and hands…"Are you going to kill me, Cameron? Can you?")_ Now, they're still whole, but there's something raw and not-raw between them. They know what's hiding beneath the smirks and the taunts and the teasing, but it's not something they want to think about, want to even consider, so they pretend it doesn't exist, but neither of them are as good at pretending as they think they are.

Samir—good man that he is. Not the best extractor, but not a bad one either and he doesn't sell people out—smiles and welcomes Arthur inside the small apartment they're using. Eames is across the room, talking to a dark-skinned woman who must be Samir's wife, a chemist and a sweetheart—according to him. He speaks of her constantly on the few jobs Arthur's done with him, though this is the first time Arthur meets her.

"Arthur, how was the flight?" Samir greets, shaking his hand. The man seems to be always smiling.

Arthur feels Eames' attention shift to him, even if the forger keeps talking to her. It's a strange talent of his. "There was a detour thanks to a tropical storm off the coast, but no problems."

"Yes, I can imagine. And it's only July! The season has hardly started." Samir introduces him to his wife, Adelina. "And I'm sure you've met Eames before."

Arthur smiles politely and it's carved from ice. "Yes, I have. Nice to see you again, Mr. Eames."

Eames mimics him. The expression doesn't fit his face. "Likewise, Arthur."

If Samir and Adelina notice anything off, they don't say anything, just continuing the job.

* * *

 

It's something that feels automatic. After he goes for his run, he gets his morning coffee at a little place he finds four blocks down from his hotel. He's walking towards the apartment that's doubling as a workspace and it's only when he arrives—the second one. Adelina beat him to it, her dark hair in a braid trailing down her back and she smiles over her chemicals at him in greeting—and he goes to set down his coffee on his desk that he realizes that there is a second cup in his hand, still warm.

Frowning, he opens the lid and sniffs the contents. Black tea, two cubes of sugar and very little cream. An old automatic habit that he shouldn't still be doing because he and Eames aren't with each other anymore.

He chucks it in the garbage and takes another sip of his coffee before he goes back to designing the levels; on this job, he is architect and point man both.

* * *

 

"Arthur." The point man looks up from his sketches. Samir and Adelina had long ago gone home and Arthur had thought that Eames had as well. "…Look over Laurence for me?"

_(While on a job with Arthur, Eames never made a forge without Arthur taking a look at it. The way they were now, it should've felt strange to ask, but the one thing that Arthur-and-Eames never did was compromise their professionalism)_

Arthur pokes the mechanical pencil closed—Mal would have teased him. She had always preferred wooden pencils to mechanical—and nods. "Let's go."

Laurence is the mark's assistant and the other man since the mark was married— _"Scandalous," Eames had said when Samir told them about it, eyes sparkling with an old mischief—_ In truth, Arthur thinks that he's rather like a male Barbie with very Nordic features. Very blonde, model-thin with very blue eyes, his only imperfection being a birthmark just beneath his jawline.

He's waiting for him in the dream, sitting on a city bench, one leg crossed casually over the other. Laurence stands to greet him, almost his height. The black slacks are almost inappropriately tight around the thighs and buttocks and too many buttons are undone for a workplace. Eames had gotten his outfits just fine.

Arthur circles him, mentally measuring the proportions of his waist to his hips, of his hips to his shoulders. He analyzes the long lines of his legs and the thickness of his fingers. He turns his head this way and that and studies the tone of his skin and the shade of blue of his eyes as well as the structure of the face.

"He's a little thinner here." Arthur takes Laurence's wrist and taps lightly on the subtle protrusion of bone. "It's a recent development. He's feeling insecure about his weight thanks to Tony in accounting."

It's a strange thing to feel the skin and bones shift beneath his fingers as Eames fixes the forge. "The man has nothing to be insecure about."

"I'm not disagreeing." Arthur steps back, circles and analyzes and studies again. "Looks fine now."

And they're too close, standing within the same square foot and they haven't been this close, just the two of them, since that conversation in Arthur's apartment. _(Eames thought himself a coward for that. He never looked for Arthur in these last months apart, didn't think that Arthur would show himself even if he did. He'd been a little afraid to look at Arthur, to be perfectly honest. Not because he expected to see the dead twin's face, but because he expected to see the cobbled-together man too tired to fight him looking back out of survivor-hollow eyes)_

The shot doesn't ring out, silencer on—Arthur is a detailed dreamer—and Eames has a moment to realize what just happened before he's jolting awake, Arthur moments behind him.

* * *

 

Arthur pretends not to notice that, on the job, he sees a lot of his projections that are old forges of Eames'. They smile at him and one attempts to pick-pocket him. He sees the boy from the photograph, one dimple in his smile and his too-large sweater and his too-short pants and how he doesn't move out from one of the alleys. If Eames sees the boy, he doesn't say anything.

* * *

 

A week after the job, he wakes up in a safe house in Hong Kong wondering why the other half of the bed is so cold. Unconsciously, he listens for the sounds of the TV or of cabinets and pans and the fridge opening and closing. But none of it comes and Arthur is annoyed at himself for, even unconsciously, expecting any of it and annoyed at Eames for implanting himself so firmly in his life.

**Eames has his own set of loyalties.**

October twenty-fourth. The cemetery was a familiar sight, the trees glowing in the sun with their autumn colors. Arthur shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as he locked the car. It was early, the cemetery opening to the public only twenty minutes ago. His phone was off, as was his custom on this date. _(Today is solely for ghosts and memories)_

Arthur glanced up when a pair of shoes came into his vision at the entrance to the cemetery. "…Eames."

The forger looked up, nose pink from the chill wind. A scarf was wrapped around his neck—yellow and worn with age, its edges frayed. He didn't say anything, but Arthur read his face anyway. He was waiting for a reaction.

"What're you doing here?" It wasn't the first time Arthur had asked this of him and it wasn't even the first time here, in this place.

"…Came to pay my respects."

_(Talked to him…your brother…)_

"Why else?"

After all that had happened to them, with all the distance between them now, Arthur still knew him so well. "Thought we'd go for dinner. Or lunch."

Arthur couldn't bring himself to say no, not today. ( _Arthur James Reynolds grinned at him, elbows resting on his knees. "So…that guy that was down here last time—he's sweet on you."_

 _Arthur stared at his brother—the_ projection _of his brother. "That so?"_

 _The older twin snorted. "You're the one that needs glasses, not me._ I _saw it soon as I saw him." He flashed another grin. "I like him." A playful, disapproving frown and Arthur wanted to never leave this spot because he'd missed that expression, that vibrant face. "How dare you take so long to introduce us!"_

_Arthur found himself laughing and it hurt somewhere in his chest to do it...)_

"…Sure."

They took turns. Eames waited by the lamppost, itching for a cigarette and at the same time, not. This cemetery had a strange, terrible kind of peace to it. It wasn't still by any means; the wind felt almost constant and a school wasn't too far off, yellow buses rumbling and children biking or walking hand in hand with younger siblings _(Had Arthur James Reynolds and Cameron done that with Mina? Had they raced each other down the sidewalks?)._

Noon came and went—Eames left to fetch lunch quickly at a small sandwich shop not far off. "Want some pop to go with those?" the girl behind the counter asked _(Arthur says 'pop' and the word makes Eames want to smile a little, knowing why Arthur doesn't drink soda on a job, knowing he'd slip if he did and allowing the slip with Eames)—_ and it wasn't until almost three o'clock that Arthur stood from his spot, brushing dirt and grass from his legs and the seat of his pants. He ran a hand along his brother's name, along the dates—it had been so long since then, or so it felt like—before he walked back to Eames.

Eames held up the sandwich wrapped in cellophane and in its brown paper bag. "Lunch."

Arthur took the bag and took out the sandwich, turning it as though trying to guess what it was without opening it. "Thanks." There was a can of generic soda in the bag too and as Eames walked toward the grave, Arthur went to the parking lot and hoisted himself up to sit on the hood of the rental car.

The area was distantly familiar—they'd lived here before they'd moved a few neighborhoods over when the twins were fourteen—and Arthur remembered walking to the gas station with his brother to get lunch on Saturdays for a few dollars and sitting on the stone wall around one of the neighborhoods, drinking warm soda more often than not because the gas station's fridges seemed to never quite want to work. Mina hadn't gotten to do that much. She'd come with them a few times, but not very often and they'd moved before she'd grown old enough to do it herself.

The elementary school was letting out and kids seemed to pour from within the walls, shouting excitedly to each other, laughing as they played a bit in the schoolyard. Another wind picked up and Arthur had to hold his hair out of his face. It was getting too long again.

His cheeks were getting a little numb and he fished a scarf from the car; Chicago was far colder than here at the moment. His scarf had been a Christmas gift from Ariadne last year— _"Or do dreamworkers not celebrate Christmas?" she'd asked, not expecting an answer—_ and it was a dark blue that looked black at night and it was wonderfully soft. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and ducked his nose into it to keep warm. He could go into the car and turn the heater on, but he liked it out here.

Eames came as the sun was sinking below the tree line. "Ready to go, love?"

Arthur glanced up automatically at the pet name and he saw the flicker in Eames' eyes as a reaction. It hadn't been a conscious decision to call him that on Eames' part and Arthur knew what it was like to be stuck in old habits. "Got a place in mind?"

"Do you?"

"No."

"Neither do I." A slight smile tilted Eames' lips. "Ready to have an adventure then?"

Arthur slid off the hood and fished his keys from his pocket, rolling his eyes a little. "Let's go then."


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spend enough time with him and Arthur can almost make you forget he's dangerous.

* * *

_"Friends you may be, if he trusts you, but you may never truly own a wild falcon, for they only stay with you as they please."  
-Rhodri (The Telling Pool)_

* * *

**Arthur isn't a believer in faith, but he wishes he was.**

Occasionally, every now and again, Eames will find it not tucked in the back of the sock drawer. Once, he found it lying on the dresser, no hiding, no illusions. The silver was dulled a little from time and lack of care, the chain long and thin and almost delicate. But its sightings were always just far enough apart that Eames had nearly forgotten about it up until it made its reappearance. Eames was grateful enough to see that the initials on the back weren't AJR but CR. The other pendant stayed in the sock drawer. There was no confusion in identity here.

Arthur never mentioned the cross with its engravings. Sometimes, Eames wasn't sure whether Arthur knew that Eames knew about it though, Eames' mind told him, Arthur must know because Arthur was much more observant and intuitive than he let on.

After a few months—no more than five, no less than three—the cross disappeared into its drawer again and to Eames knowledge, never taken out. Eames pretended he didn't know why it was taken out in the first place. _(…through Christ…strengthens…)_

**The red die was another pawn in their ongoing game.**

They're in Vegas again and they play up the image of bored rich men very easily. Or the roles of bumbling tourist. Or experienced gamblers. Whatever they need. It's a simple con, no dreamwork involved, but they need the money. Arthur, Eames finds, is good at distracting people and that's what he's doing.

_(In truth, Eames was better at it than Arthur was, but Arthur wasn't a good pickpocket. Not yet, so the job fell to Eames)_

It's easy enough for Arthur to get the attention of the women—and some of the men. It varies sometimes when they're doing this con, but it generally starts with a bump—occasionally a spilled drink—a shy, apologetic smile that perfectly displays those dimples and he draws them into conversation with little effort. He's charming and clever and engaging and it doesn't take much at all for Eames to sneak in behind them and slip wallets from purses and pockets.

They count up the stolen cash in the men's room and Eames lets Arthur do the figures and budget it out because Eames and math don't do well together. If they have enough already, they divide the money—just in case. Arthur-and-Eames are all about contingency plans—and slip out, separating and meeting at a rendezvous point. If not, they return to the floor and it's all rinse and repeat from there.

Eames smirks at Arthur as they're exiting the restroom. "You should try and get an acting gig, darling. Leave the thief's work to me."

The younger man arches an eyebrow. "Are you saying I'm not good enough to do what you do?"

"Not as good as I do it, no."

Eames should have known that the expression to cross Arthur's face is little more than a challenge accepted.

They aren't caught this time—they aren't always so lucky—and Arthur's already driving out, Eames still strolling to his car like any other tourist. They meet at the little motel room they're sharing, Eames arriving a good half an hour later than the other man to throw off any potential tails. He's shedding his jacket and falling backwards onto his half of the bed when he notices it.

It's average-sized, translucently red with white dots. In gold lettering on the side is the name of the casino. He looks at Arthur, who is sitting on his side of the bed with a book in hand.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?" It's said almost innocently and without looking.

"…you little _thief_." It's said with some small measure of pride because Eames had, after all, been the one to teach him everything about stealing.

Arthur smirks at him and this is the real one, not the face he puts on for the marks. There is no shyness and there are no apologies. "Well, you can't be the only one in town."

_(Eames thought of a poker chip sitting in his pocket—it's part of his usual routine when he left the room now. Keys, wallet, cell phone, chip—and thought that this was some kind of strange irony because Arthur and Eames were always playing a constant game of one-up-manship)_

**Arthur is a good teacher.**

Eames isn't surprised to find that, on the next job with her after inception, Arthur takes Ariadne aside for at least an hour every day to teach her self-defense.

At first, Ariadne teases him a little, calls him overprotective and jokes about how this is the first time she's seen him out of a suit. But when Arthur doesn't react to the teasing like he usually does, with dry wit and half-smiles, she knows he's serious. _("Look, Daddy!" "…walk, Will…sober…" "Mina…hide…")_

He takes her through the basics first; how to throw a punch properly—"You have to twist your whole body into it."—how to keep an arm stiff when she blocks. Eames helps with the demonstrations sometimes, grabbing her from behind and compared to him, Ariadne is _tiny_ , but Arthur teaches her how to use her size to her advantage, teaches her how to duck out, to pinpoint the places that'll hurt the most with the least force or movement.

After a few days, Eames meets up with them at a shooting range, leaning back on the wall as Arthur sometimes correcting her grip or her stance, showing her small tricks to better her aim. She's not particularly good at it—she hasn't shot a gun since limbo and that had been adrenaline and dream-urgency _( Which was a strange thing because that urgency can either make the dream warp the shot into your favor or the shot would go wild, exploding into motion. Literally)_.

Eames watches her as she tries. Arthur doesn't require perfection out of others—he prefers it, but he knows that things don't always happen that way _(In truth, Eames was part of the reason for that influence. So many years of…them…have managed to lower his standards somewhat)_

She becomes passably good at shooting—nothing on Arthur's automatic pinpoint accuracy or Eames' precision, but it's good enough to defend herself and it puts both of their minds more at ease when she comes on a job.

**Spend enough time with him and Arthur can almost make you forget that he's dangerous.**

"Sheral?"

"Allen? Is everything okay?" He usually called about once a month, roughly, sometimes more, sometimes less. He'd called just last week.

Eames breathed a sigh of relief and sank down to the ground. He'd known she wasn't in any danger—Arthur didn't hurt women, after all. Not unless they started it—but he'd needed to hear her voice. "Fine. Everything's fine."

"Why do I feel like that's not the whole truth?" He could picture her, curled onto the old wicker chair that she'd made fun of him for sitting outside her house or sitting on the counter in the kitchen—her go-to spot for phone conversations when it was too rainy—likely wearing shorts and an old T-shirt.

Sheral always did know him too well. "It is."

"Uh-huh."

"Would I lie to you, darling?"

"Lies of omission are still lies." She was the one girl who never went for his charm.

"Humor me, won't you?"

She made a sound of agreement. "…A friend of yours came by the other day for you. The one that came to Anne's wedding. Arthur?"

Eames leaned his head back against the wall. He knew about the visit, of course. The file was still strewn on his kitchen table where he'd thrown it after what had transpired less than an hour ago. _("Dig into my past all you want...consequences...)_ "And what did he tell you?"

"That you were overloaded with work and that the bank was having issues with its wire transfers which was why he was dropping the check off."

"How very original." And knowing Arthur, the check was likely real.

"What's originality to a lonely housewife like me?"

"Entertainment?'

Sheral snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I have the telly for that."

Eames chuckled a little, grateful for this conversation, for the sound of her voice. He missed more than his wife; he missed her as one of his closest friends as well. "Don't act like you actually watch it all that often. You're probably just putting DVDs in."

"So I don't like waiting for commercials; sue me."

Eames stretched out his legs. He could hear the bustling sounds of Nairobi outside and the constant press of the sun had enveloped his apartment in a comfortable warmth, though he kept the fan on the ceiling spinning constantly. "…How's our girl?"

"It's a long weekend, so she said she'd come home." A pause. "Should be on her way now, actually."

A fond smile tilted Eames' lips. "How's she liking the university?"

"It's too easy, if you'll believe that. She's looking for a challenge, but she likes her major, her classes. Her roommate, not so much, but." He can see her shrugging. She hesitated before saying, "She wants to find you. I don't know why—she won't say—but she does."

A fierce wave of longing swept over him to reconnect with his daughter. "…She won't find me." He knew his own skills at hiding and with Arthur to help banish all connections, Amara would find nothing.

"Because you won't let her." There wasn't anything angry in her voice, just a quiet reminder. "Would it kill you, Allen? To talk with her? To have lunch every now and again when you're in the area?"

In truth, Eames avoided England fairly often to not give himself the temptation. If he had a layover, he stayed in the airport, much as he hated doing that. Arthur never commented on it, but Eames was sure he knew of the habit.

_(This is his daughter though, his mind reminds him and he opens the locket to her smiling face)_

"…I could try," Eames said carefully. "No promises though."

A soft snort of laughter. "Yeah, you're not very good at those."

_(Sherallyn is a forgiving woman—too forgiving really, even if she does have a hard center that rears its head sometimes. She never mentions the fact that Eames is never there and she isn't good at losing her temper. She is incredibly good at making Eames feel guilty though, and he's never sure if she's doing it on purpose)_

"Sheral—"

"It's fine, Allen," she interrupted. "If you're going to apologize, don't. I knew what I was getting into when I married you."

"Why can't you be normal and get pissed like all the other women?"

"So there have been other women," She's teasing now; he'd never known if she figured out him and Arthur at the wedding. "And if I were normal, you'd never have even dated me, let alone marry me."

And wasn't that what it all boiled down to? Eames' love of odd things, things that ticked differently than others _(Of lovely dark-eyed women whose voices were accented with French, of hollow-sharp eyes on an ex-military man that isn't good at following orders)_


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames doesn't really believe in totems anymore.

_"In three words, I can sum up everything I've ever learned about life-it goes on."  
-Robert Frost_

* * *

**Eames doesn't really believe in totems anymore.**

After the failed inception, after they began dreaming together again and discovered how little use the locket was as a totem now—sometimes it worked. Sometimes, the photograph of the smiling child in her bright dress was enough. Not always though—Eames tried to change it. But changing a totem was not so simple as making that first one.

His first instinct was the poker chip. It was an obvious choice. There were few things that he could constantly carry on his person that wouldn't seem strange and the poker chip was one of the few objects that had been there just as long.

But Arthur knew when the decision was made against it. He saw the glance up, saw the glance last longer than it should have and saw the verdict on Eames' face. _(Arthur James Reynolds is a destroyer of totems, of security and even Arthur can't guarantee that he's gone for good)_

Arthur was careful not to be looking at Eames when he asked, "...Have you found a new totem?"

He felt the tension spread itself along Eames' shoulders; they're not healed yet, haven't managed to forgive each other their brokenness, but they can at least have this because no one else is going to be there for them. Not for this. "I believe so."

"Have you tested it?"

"Not yet. Are you offering?"

"Peterson called. Said there was a job over in Cape Town. There's room for a forger." Arthur had tried not to take the difficult or complicated jobs recently, not until his mind settled from going into limbo, but things weren't that easy. He couldn't afford to show any weaknesses and neither could Eames. Getting jobs together was one of the safer ways to do things; at the very least, they could trust one other person on the team.

Eames agreed easily because even after all of what they'd been through—which would have broken lesser bonds—he still trusted Arthur to have done his part and research the mark and the parameters of the job. Arthur's eye, without a conscious thought on his part, caught Eames' fingers moving in his left-hand pocket, like someone rubbing a good luck charm.

_(Arthur's known plenty of men with good luck charms, most from his military days. He remembers Charles Baptiste from New Orleans, who always carried with him an old fading chain of purple Mardi Gras beads "to remind him of better times". Frank Lawrence from Kansas carried an actual rabbit's foot. Travis Chang had a handcrafted coin with Buddha imprinted on it—his grandmother's, he said. Carter Elliot carried a photograph of his girl back in Oregon, a volleyball player and writer. Arthur James Reynolds used to joke, as he hugged Cameron 'round the shoulders, that he didn't need a good luck charm, that he had his brother for that)_

The job went fairly smooth—there was a rough patch with uncooperative projections, but those were easy enough to deal with—and afterward when everyone was waking and scrambling to different parts of the room, backs to the others, to check their totems, Arthur didn't look at Eames and Eames didn't look at him. Boundaries had been reestablished and, for now, perhaps that was enough.

**Eames has strong genes.**

He was sitting in an airport bar in Sydney—not drinking. The only thing in his glass is some Coca-Cola because it was far too hot for coffee and he needed some kind of caffeine—when she sidled up to him. She was pretty, all light brown hair with honey blonde streaks and sunglasses, with tan lines hooking around her neck, just visible thanks to her thin blue shirt. Her capris still managed to show off her legs nicely and she wore her purse hooked diagonally over her torso.

Arthur registered it all immediately because his paranoia wouldn't let him do otherwise. She smiled, no lipstick, no makeup at all, and offered to buy him a drink.

"No, thank you," Arthur told her.

"Too early or don't you trust me?" Her accent rolled familiar and hardly there, like it was long forgotten.

"A bit of both, really."

She held out a hand. "Selina. Selina Wyatt."

"Justin Peterson." It was the name on the passport in his pocket and the Nevada driver's license in his wallet.

"What brings you all the way out here, Justin Peterson?" She crossed one leg over the other, but it was almost non-flirtatious.

"Vacation," Arthur replied easily.

Selina ran her eyes over him and while he saw approval, there was no active interest. "Are you an outdoors man, Justin?"

"Not particularly. Big fan of the opera though."

She laughed and it was sweet and warm. "Good to hear."

"And what brings you here, Ms. Wyatt?"

"I thought we'd progressed past such formalities." Something about that phrase touches a bell in the back of Arthur's mind and he forced himself not to tense. "And I came to look for someone."

"Did you find them?"

Selina rested her chin on her palm, elbow on the bar. "You tell me, Arthur. Ah, don't get up. There's three agents within a twenty foot radius. Not counting myself of course." She slipped a hand in her purse and pulled out a badge, flipping it open. "Interpol."

"...You're good." There were very few government agents that had managed to catch up to him.

"Thank you." She slipped her sunglasses off and uncrossed her legs, leaning forward a little. "Now, what can you tell me about a Mr. Eames?"

_(Later, Arthur will laugh when he remembers her eyes, a familiar shade of gray. Because of course it had been a long enough time that little Amara Evans is old enough to have been recruited and of course she has her father's talent for being able to become anybody. She could be a terror in dreamwork, he knows and he makes a note to keep the encounter from Eames)_

**Eames likes to take long showers.**

It's their first chance to relax since escaping the military, PASIV in hand. Arthur said that he'd keep first watch and Eames didn't argue _(There's an old suspicion there, an old thing that keeps him sleeping light at night)_.

But chances were that no one would find them out here in Corner of No and Where, Kentucky. When Eames finally stepped out of the shower, ready to sleep for a while, Arthur arched an eyebrow at him.

"You leave any hot water for me?"

Eames just smirked at him. "Well perhaps next time, you'd like to share with me, darling."

The pink flared in Arthur's cheeks, but that didn't stop him from saying, "I've never believed in sharing."

"Too bad."

**Eames knows Arthur too well.**

Cobb's cell rang, an obnoxious tone that Cobb stared at, which meant he had no idea who'd changed the ringtone. Arthur was willing to bet it was one of the kids. They were too good with technology for their own good.

"Hello?"

"Cobb, put Arthur on for me."

"Why didn't you just call him?"

"We have our reasons."

Cobb rolled his eyes, not sure about what, exactly, Arthur and Eames had between them this time, but he handed Arthur the phone.

"Eames."

"Blocking my number, darling? That's cold even for you."

"There's a reason for that."

"Oh, I'm aware. I'm also aware that you're not telling me something."

"And why is that?"

"I spoke to Sheral the other day." In which the conversation would have gone to Amara, which could have gone in a direction Arthur didn't much like.

"Where are you?"

"Munich."

"Don't leave. I'll be there soon." With that, Arthur hung up the phone.

"Lover's spat?" Cobb asked, but his eyes—too old for his face—were studying Arthur and looking for a specific reason. He wouldn't find one. This time, the animosity between him and Eames was full of stale stories and old hurts that neither of them were entirely responsible for.

"Something like that." Arthur shrugged on his coat as he stepped back into his shoes. "I gotta head to the airport."

"Want a ride?"

"No thanks. Kids'll be home from school soon. You should be here."

Dom knew better than to argue. His stubbornness was no match for Arthur's. "Have a safe flight then."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur will forgive, eventually, but he never forgets.

* * *

_"Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on."  
Samuel Butler_

* * *

**Arthur knows what it is to miss someone.**

Arthur lands in Munich the very next day and it doesn't surprise him that Eames is waiting outside on a bench, head leaning against the back and legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, hands folded on his stomach. He'd texted him the time of his arrival.

"You look rather comfortable."

"I had to," Eames says, opening gray eyes. "You're late."

"Not my fault the plane had to take a detour thanks to storms."

"I suppose not. Shall we?"

Eames hails a taxi and they sit in complete silence in the back and it stretches taut between them. They still haven't quite forgiven each other their trespasses. The taxi takes them to a hotel and Arthur pays before he slides out after Eames.

The hotel room door is hardly closed behind them when Eames swivels to look at him. "She found you."

Arthur sets his carry-on and duffel bag on the bed. He always has some emergency packs in his trunk. "…She did. In Sydney."

"And?"

Arthur plops onto the bed in a life-tired kind of way and Eames wants to join him, but he can't quite bring himself to do it just yet. Arthur unbuttons his jacket before he speaks. "…She looks good. Healthy. Confident."

The tension leaves Eames' shoulders in a warm rush. "Thank God."

A strange smile tilts Arthur's lips. "…She's _good_ , Eames."

Eames lets himself sit then, because this feels familiar and the tautness of the taxi's silence is gone. This is closer to what they had. "I can imagine. She managed to catch you, after all."

_(Eames knew that the only reason that Arthur wasn't behind bars right now was because Amara was too focused on him and he wondered if Arthur told her anything.)_

He snorts. "It was almost embarrassingly easy."

Eames laughs. "You're just getting a little soft, darling. Nothing to concern yourself over."

Arthur shoots him a look, which only makes Eames laugh harder. Arthur reaches behind them and slips his laptop from the carry-on bag. Eames watches over his shoulder curiously. When Arthur signs in, a slightly grainy video shows up. Arthur clicks Play and moves the laptop onto Eames' lap.

"I tried to clear it up as best I could. No audio, though."

Eames finds Arthur at the bar, glass of soda in hand. He watches the young woman—his _daughter_ —come up to him, sleek and smooth, all cool confidence, sees her smile and sees the moment that Arthur knows he's caught, sees her pull out the badge. He catches the other agents nearby. One at the café, one waiting in the nearest gate, one pretending to be on the phone near the Wi-Fi station.

"…What did she want?"

"You know the answer to that one already. She's…determined to find you." _(Arthur didn't say that if stubbornness ran in Eames' family like those gray eyes and the bad fashion sense did, then Amara would likely find him)_

Eames eyes don't leave the screen and he watches as she talks to Arthur, perfectly casual in body language, but he knows it can't have been that simple. He watches as Arthur looks for exit routes, watches as she stops him with a few words and a poisonously sweet smile. "…Sheral said something about that."

"You should listen to her." Arthur hesitates before saying, "…She would be a great forger." _(He'd seen it. Amara had her mother's looks—save for the eyes—and her father's talent and if that wasn't a recipe for danger, he didn't know what was)_

Eames' eyes flick to the point man and he knows the thoughts. Eames had made a similar remark about Mina once, about how she'd do wonderful in the field. But they both know that, if they get any say about it, their families are never going to find out about dreamworking. Ever.

"…Perhaps it's the sort of thing that runs in families."

_(At that moment, they were both struck by a sudden, terrible fear. Phillipa—bright, smart, sassy Phillipa—and James—the opposite, quiet and thoughtful, though very sweet—both trapped in dreams. Mina, proud and independent, half-broken with only reflections of her twin brothers to keep her company. Amara, hunted, never able to settle)_

Arthur manages a shadow of a smile. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. Amara's moral compass actually appears to point north."

Eames chuckles a little at that and it tastes like cracked glass.

**Arthur is intuitive.**

Arthur's fingers trace the tattoo almost absent-mindedly as Eames half-dozes beneath him. It's something Arthur does every now and again, as though checking for any new designs to signal him of someone else's death, but today, his fingers don't wander. They stay tracing the lines of the tribal sun with the moon hooking onto it. _(It was a strange thing because it had been nearly a year since the confrontation in Nairobi, nine months since Arthur had found Eames sitting outside his apartment and this was their first time trying to get back to what they were)_

Eames opens his eyes and blinks up at Arthur. "Something bothering you?"

"No. Just thinking." The warm fingertips keep their path and Eames relaxes into the sensation.

"About?"

"Things."

Eames frowns a little; Arthur usually isn't this coy with his answers. "Darling—"

"…You've told me about your mother, your grandmother." The stories aren't many and they're sparsely detailed, but Arthur can read in between the lines for it to be enough.

"Right."

Arthur seems about to say something, but changes his mind halfway through. "…How did you meet Sheral?"

Eames catches the change of mind and wonders what it can be that Arthur's talent for blunt honesty wavers in the face of it, but he lets it go for now, curious as to where this line of conversation would go. "…I worked with her sister, Anne, in this little shop. I was…fourteen. I cleaned up the shop and whatnot and she worked behind the counter. Sheral came 'round noon one day to have lunch with her. Anne invited me along. Why?"

"Curiosity."

Eames snorts and runs a hand through Arthur's curls. "And here I thought you hated that word."

"I never said I didn't like it. You assumed."

"I only assumed because you insinuated."

Arthur rolls his eyes a little and his fingers continue up Eames' skin, following the lines of the rest of the tattoos. Eames is almost certain of the original question Arthur had thought up and he's grateful that he had changed his mind. That story can wait.

**Arthur will forgive, eventually, but that doesn't mean he forgets.**

"What're you doing here?"

Eames looked up guiltily from where he'd picked his way inside. Arthur must have just gotten out of the shower, his hair dripping and sweatpants pulled on hastily, gun in hand. _(He hasn't been in this apartment since Arthur had sat in that chair in the dining room and told Eames about his father)_ "Arthur—"

The gun dropped; whether it was instinct or not was up for grabs. Arthur's eyes scanned him, caught the drying blood on his side. "How do you always manage to make it here when you're injured?"

"Illinois isn't very kind to me. I thought you were on a job in Bangkok."

"I was. Finished up early. Can you walk?" Arthur was suddenly entirely professional, setting the gun on the table and striding over to him. This was the point man returned.

"Enough."

Arthur carefully looped the arm on Eames' uninjured side around his shoulders and helped Eames to the bathroom. The air was still humid and moist, the droplets on the shower curtain not yet dried. Arthur's towel was still lying on the floor where he'd likely dropped it as soon as he heard an intruder.

Eames managed to get almost to the toilet seat before he slipped off, crashing against the bathtub, groaning, his bad leg flaring a little in pain and nearly taking Arthur with him.

Arthur helped him sit upright before going to the cabinet beneath the sink and pulling out his medicine kit. He dabbed at the cut, diagonally across his ribs, cutting a bit into the pectoral muscle, before he had to leave the bathroom to get the glasses on the nightstand to get a closer look.

"I was being serious about my question before," Arthur said, slipping a black thread through the needle. The cut was wide and deeper than it looked. Eames had someone up there who loved him because had it gone much deeper, he wouldn't have lived for more than, maybe, five minutes. "Who'd you piss off in this area to always be getting in this kind of trouble?"

"You know Griffin?

"Leader of the Irish gang?"

"The very same."

Eames read the thoughts that flashed across Arthur's face before he settled on one to say aloud. "How'd you manage to piss him off?"

Eames snorted a little and leaned his head back to look at the ceiling. The bathroom smelled familiar, of toothpaste, shower steam and Arthur's cologne despite the metallic edge of bloodscent. "It's a very long story, darling. An old one."

Arthur didn't flinch at the pet name and neither did Eames. But they felt it between them, heavy as a lodestone and they ignored it with old ease. "One best heavily soaked in whiskey?"

"Beer, in point of fact." Eames hissed as Arthur accidentally tugged a little too hard. "It's definitely a beer story."

"Damn," Arthur drawled, low and wry. "And I'm fresh out."

"Another time, perhaps."

"Perhaps." It wasn't an invitation and it wasn't a promise _(They're not good at those. Not when it comes to each other)_ but it's something.

**Arthur knows Eames too well.**

Sheral leaned against the doorframe when she answered the door. Her blonde hair was messily pulled up in a clip, loose strands around her face. She wore a very warm looking green sweater, its hems slightly frayed.

"Hey, Allen." There were new lines on her face, faint and soft, but there.

"Sheral—"

"I know why you're here." Eames frowned in confusion, so she clarified. "That friend of yours called the other day. Arthur, was it? Let me know that Amara contacted him, said that you'd probably be dropping by here soon."

Eames sighed. "Are you going to tell me to stay away?"

"Allen—your daughter has gone around the world looking for you. I just want to know beforehand if you're going to break her heart."

Eames sighed and he saw his breath in the air. It was getting chilly. "Can we talk about this inside?"

She seemed to think about it, but stepped aside to let him in. Eames glanced around, saw the TV paused on a shot of wide fields and open sky. It looked like Kansas or Iowa, one of those Midwest states. _(Eames doesn't like to think about how he knows America better than he ever knew England, doesn't like to think about the fact that when he thinks of home, he thinks of an apartment in Chicago or his flat in Nairobi, of books with notes in the margins and eyeglasses on the nightstand)_

Sheral leaned her forearms on the counter, her hard center finding its way out. "Well?"

"Darling, I don't—I don't _want_ to hurt her."

"That doesn't mean you won't."

"It's better that she doesn't find me. That she doesn't get involved. It's _safer._ "

"Are you in trouble?"

Eames flashed a sad, tired smile. "When have I ever not been?"

"Arthur made it sound like it was worse this time." _(And Arthur would know. Just like he knew that Eames would come here, that he would break his rule for this)_

"There are people after me. Constantly. And a lot of them will stop at nothing to get to me. If anyone ever discovered the connection between Amara and me, they'd hurt her."

"Then you should tell _her_ that. She doesn't deserve to be in the dark about this, not after all she's gone through to get to where she is."

"It's not so easy."

"Because you're making it that way."

His voice steeled. "No, it _is_ that way."

Her eyes iced over, her voice hard. "You're a coward, Allen. I always knew that, but I thought I could trust that, when you were needed, you'd find some kind of courage. Apparently that's not the case."

_(He wants to tell her that he found his courage, that it takes more than she knows to stay away, but he knows it's only a different kind of cowardice)_


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is a coward.

* * *

_"If you can't love someone at their worst, you don't deserve them at their best."  
-Anonymous_

* * *

**Eames is a coward.**

They're both startled awake by a ringing phone. Arthur grumbled in annoyance, but shimmied to the edge of the bed and groped along the floor until he felt cloth, tugging it closer. He frowned at his shirt—he wasn't wearing his contacts and the room was pitch black at this hour save for the slits of light that made their way through the blinds—before he tossed it away and continued the search for pants.

After fumbling a bit more for the phones—frankly, he was surprised the other person hadn't hung up or left a voicemail—Arthur found the one ringing. It was Eames', but one glance back told Arthur that the forger was already halfway back to sleep.

He flipped the phone open. "Hello?" Arthur said quietly and perhaps a little groggily. A light sleeper he might be, but no one was happy being woken in the middle of the night for a phone call.

"Dad?"

Arthur froze and Eames blinked up at him. Three months of being almost back together _(Not quite because forgiveness takes time and they're still trying to get used to trusting each other again)_ and more than five years of sleeping together and almost eleven years since Arthur had gone to him with the idea to steal the PASIV and this had never happened to them.

_(Arthur can picture the Interpol agent that is also Eames' daughter, was Eames' daughter to him first. She is smooth and confident and she has Arthur's grudging respect. Not just anyone could find him, after all)_

Covering the mouthpiece, Arthur looked at Eames. "It's Amara."

Eames seemed genuinely shocked and Arthur couldn't blame him. He knew that Sheral had Eames' number—something that never failed to impress him—but he didn't think that Amara would have it.

"Hello?" Amara's voice was grainy and faint from the earpiece.

Eames still seemed to be in shock. Arthur put the phone back up to his ear. "He's…currently indisposed."

He heard the gears turning on the other end. "Is this Arthur?"

"I don't know an Arthur. My name is—"

There was a slow curl of a smirk in her voice. "Justin Peterson, right? My mistake. Why do you have this phone?"

Arthur wasn't in the mood for witty banter, though she had a talent for it. _(Just like her father)_ "Why do you?"

"Touché. I'm using my mother's phone. Your turn, Mr. Peterson."

"The phone was on the counter. Do you know what time it is?"

A quiet moment, likely to do some mental math. "Sometime ungodly, I take it?"

"Precisely."

"Is my father able to talk now?"

Arthur glanced over at Eames, who looked like he was listening carefully, more to hear her voice than because he wanted to know what was going on. When he held out the phone as an offer, Eames automatically recoiled a little, muscles tensing and Arthur knew what it was to be afraid.

_(He watches his nephew grow on a laptop screen. He sees his sister's second pregnancy through a series of photographs that her husband takes, sees her stomach swell and reads her name options)_

"Sorry, no."

"…Oh." Arthur knew that tone. It was the same tone Phillipa and James used to have when Cobb would call them from abroad. "…Thanks anyway."

It hadn't been Amara, tough-as-nails Interpol agent calling. It had been Amara Evans, the pretty girl with purple ribbons in her hair and an odd liking for clashing patterns who couldn't even really remember her father.

At that moment, Arthur hated Eames for being afraid.

**There are Eames-only slots in Arthur's world.**

Arthur's mother died when Arthur was thirty-seven. Mira was the one who gave them the news and they both felt like absolute garbage for not knowing beforehand.

Eames went with Arthur to Vermont for the funeral and the burial and to help him settle her affairs. Mina helped too, but she had two kids to be worrying about too. Arthur Bishop watched his uncle during all the ceremonies, as though searching for something. His sister, Danielle, was five and some change and watched everything with large, green eyes, never letting go of her brother's hand.

_(Eames notices how Arthur doesn't quite look at them, even though his niece's resemblance to Arthur James Reynolds is solely in the eyes. She has her father's sandy blonde hair and a unique smile. But his nephew has his spirit, the protectiveness, the mischief and perhaps that hurts more)_

Emma's house—the house they'd grown up in after moving from across town—was being sold. Mina had looked at that house—the one she'd spent more time in—and seeing the look on her face, Arthur offered to pack it up for her. Eames was sure that Mina could do it herself, but it would take a different kind of strength that she didn't quite have today.

At first, being back in that house was strange, as it always was. Arthur knew it would be, but he hadn't known how much he'd thought of his mother as a staple in that house. He kept half-expecting her to come to the door, hair flyaway and giving him a look. _"What're you doing, packing all that up?"_ she would ask.

Eames packed up the kitchen because it was the one place in the house where photographs and other personals weren't kept. Except for a small framed paper hung above the counter beside the window.

_Wishing you always…_  
Walls for the wind,  
A roof for the rain  
And tea beside the fire.  
Laughter to cheer you,  
Those you love near you,  
And all that your heart may desire

With it was a photo, old and grainy of a man and a woman smiling. Eames didn't recognize either one, but Danielle had the woman's smile and there was a familiarity in the shape of the man's face. The woman's curls were windswept and the man had a loose easiness to his posture. His nose was as crooked as his smile.

Arthur came in with another box. He followed Eames' eyes. "…My grandparents. I was always told that they gave that to my mom when she got her first apartment."

Arthur had never thought about this house without it. It was one of the first things he'd learned to read, propped on the counter while Mom cooked, his brother asking her questions about how and why. He remembered the way Mom would help him sound it out or give him a word that seemed too difficult.

Arthur held up the box. "Thought you might be running out of space."

Eames smiled at him. "Thank you, darling."

They worked through the afternoon and even a bit into the night. At some point, Eames walked into the living room that had become an obstacle course of boxes and piles to find Arthur sitting against the wall, elbows on his knees, just looking around at the room. _(Arthur sees the ghosts here, more than anywhere else. He sees Mom teaching the three of them to dance to the music on the old record player. He sees Arthur James Reynolds and himself fighting over the remote on Saturday mornings. Sees Mina spinning in the center, a new dress for the school dance swirling around her, sees them putting up the tree a week before Christmas)_

Eames went to sit beside him. "How does sleep sound?"

Arthur looked over at him. "Like a good idea."

* * *

He didn't sleep well. He woke up at some terrible hour and stared around at the walls of the room he and his brother had shared. It wasn't the same. Emma had cleaned it out, turned it into a guest room. The bedspreads were plain, nondescript blue. The quilts folded at the foot of each bed were ordinary. Nothing to show real personality in this room.

_(But Arthur remembers. Remembers his brother's Transformers bedspread, remembers his own Star Wars one. Remembers posters taped and tacked to the walls. Remembers his brother grinning at him from the darkness. "Come on, let's go somewhere."_

_"Where?" Cameron had asked groggily._

_"Anywhere."_

_"'S the middle of the night."_

_"Exactly. C'mon. Just down to the park. I feel like a walk."_

_"And you have to take me with you?"_

_A gentle vibration of laughter. "Of course!")_

After that, he couldn't stay asleep. Eames slept on in the other bed—they'd thought about sleeping in the same bed for a moment, but quickly dismissed the idea at the size of the beds—so Arthur slipped out, his body remembering which floorboards were creaky even if his mind didn't.

Eames would find him about an hour later in the living room, watching old home videos, volume hardly there.

"I was going to pack up more," Arthur offered as explanation, eyes not looking away. "I figured, since I was up, might as well get something done."

But his body had moved almost without conscious decision when he found those old video tapes and he'd popped them in. And here he was, watching old pranks and old moments. Eames took a seat beside him on the couch. The neighborhood effort someone had organized to plant one tree in everyone's yard. Cameron and Arthur James Reynolds looked up from their shovels, little more than fourteen and waved at the camera. The cameraman must have said something because they broke out in laughter and Arthur James Reynolds rolled his eyes and covered the lens with his hand.

Mina's first boyfriend. Emma must have been filming because Cameron was leaning on the arm of the couch and Arthur James Reynolds was waiting by the door, a suspicious look on his face. A doorbell rang in the past and Mina stopped her brother before he ever moved, pushing him back towards his twin so that she could open the door. A flash of Cameron grinning with a hand on his brother's shoulder before he said something quietly as Emma turned the camera to Mina. The boyfriend was scrawny and looked terrified at the sight of her two brothers.

Road trip to New York for a concert, Arthur James Reynolds in the driver's seat. Two friends in the back—three, with the filmer—his brother in the passenger's seat. They looked exhilaratingly young and at a red light, Arthur James Reynolds turned back to the camera and Arthur remembered him saying, "Mom never needs to know." and Cameron was pushing at his shoulder to get his attention because the light turned green and the radio had been blaring Blue Oyster Cult and Whitesnake.

Graduation when the camera was shoved into Mina's hands as Emma ran to her sons to hug them. The twins laughed as their caps fell from the force before returning the embrace fiercely.

Eames didn't say anything, something for which Arthur was grateful. He didn't say anything until the video ran its course and then the only things left was the black and white static and the silence curled into every corner of the house. Really, he didn't even say anything. Just started humming _Carry On, My Wayward Son_ as he stood and continued the cleaning. It made Arthur smile a little as he went to turn off the TV.

**Eames has a daughter who's stronger than him.**

He saw her by accident and at first, he almost didn't recognize her, thinking she was just another face in the crowd. _(He isn't sure if it's because she has her father's talent or because she has one of those faces)_ Her hair was entirely blonde again, tied back in a braid which left her face open in a different way. She was having lunch with a man—a bit on the thin side, glasses perched on his nose and flyaway dark brown hair. Likely a coworker judging from the similar badges they had clipped to their belt loops.

Three days ago, Arthur hadn't been surprised when he got a phone call from Eames. He'd toed a line, possibly crossed one, when he'd called Sheral, but it had needed to be done. If Eames was going to break his rules, Arthur thought it best that someone other than him would show him the consequences of whatever he was planning to do. Eames had hung up without saying more, though Arthur could guess what the forger wanted to do. _(But the thing about cowards is that they don't always do what they want to do. They do what's easier to do)_

Arthur wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to do it—Impulsive and Reckless have similar faces, but with different smiles. Reckless would be all wide grins and love of the challenge. Impulsive was a creature of wicked eyes and sly smirks that whispered dares in your ears—and he crossed the street to where they were sharing a bench.

"Amara? Amara Evans, as I live and breathe."

She whirled at the sound of her name. Her eyes narrowed at him, two hard pieces of flint and Arthur had the thought that she was made of sterner stuff than her father. "…Can I help you?"

"That hurts that you don't remember me." It was effortless to adopt and easy personality; perhaps Eames had rubbed off on him.

"Who is this?" the man asked.

Arthur saw the split second she made her decision. "…An old friend of the family. Do you mind, Tommy? I need to talk with him about something."

Tommy stood, brushing bread crumbs from his lap. "Of course not." He held out a hand to Arthur. "Thomas Taggart. And you are?"

Arthur shook his hand. "Justin Peterson. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. You've got ten minutes until break's over," Tommy reminded her before he left.

"I'll be back before then." Amara waited until she heard Tommy's footsteps disappear. "So why are you here?"

"To talk to you."

"Obviously."

"…Why are you so determined to find him?"

Amara stared at him. "He's my father. I haven't seen him since that wedding. Wouldn't you want to talk to your father again if you could?"

Arthur shifted his weight, hands in his pockets. "Can't say I would, no."

"And why do you care, 'Justin'? You're way too invested in this for it to be casual."

"Ea—Allen is an old friend of mine. I don't want him messing up his life."

Amara sprang to her feet. She was shorter than Arthur, not quite petite, but there was an old, coiled fury in her stance that made her seem of a height with him. "You think I would do that?"

"I can't know that you won't."

She took a step back and looked him up and down. "He left us for you? What, were we not good enough?"

Arthur had forgotten how very young Amara had been then and he'd never known, exactly, why Eames left his beautiful wife and daughter, his life back in England for the military. He'd never asked—it wasn't his business—but he'd never thought that perhaps Sherallyn didn't know. Perhaps Eames himself didn't even know.

"…I don't know why he left," he told her honestly. "I hadn't even met him then."

And perhaps that had been worse to say. Amara shook her head. "Forget it. I don't care anymore. I find you in the field, or him, and I'll arrest you."

_(It's not that she doesn't care. It's that she's done with trying when all it leads to is dead ends and her father's…whatever Arthur is)_

She was already walking away from him when Arthur called, "He wants to talk to you."

She turned. "What?"

"Your father. He wants to talk to you."

"So why doesn't he?"

"He thinks he's protecting you."

Amara snorted and tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. "That's—that's so… _argh_." Arthur knew that frustration well. Eames was good at causing it. "The hell does he think I need protecting for? And from _him_ of all people?"

Arthur shrugged and thought of Phillipa, of Mina. "Despite what you might think, he loves you. It tends to make men a little….fussy."

She laughed at that and it changed her face. But there were sharp edges to that laugh and he knew she wasn't okay. "Right. And do you think that too? That I can't take care of myself?"

Arthur took her in, took in the slightly jagged edges, the confidence. Saw the temper, saw the lean muscles of her arms and the calluses on her knuckles. Saw the hard set of her jaw and the darkness in the back of her eyes that people could get if they saw a few terrible things, which in her line of work, was entirely possible. Saw the bravery and the fear both, the intelligence.

"…No, I don't. I think you know what you're doing."

She looked surprised at that. "Think you can convince him of that?"

A wry smile twisted his lips. "I've told him that. But then, he's not one to listen to people. Likes to bend the rules."

The flash of slight guilt in her eyes let Arthur know that she had the same tendency. "Where can I find him?"

"Honestly? I'd say stay away from police stations and government buildings and he'll find you pretty soon."

"He will?"

"I wasn't lying when I told you he wanted to find you. I don't think it's the best idea for him, but," Arthur shrugged. "Not my decision." He glanced at his watch. "Looks like your ten minutes are up. Goodbye, Amara."

He'd only walked a few steps before she said, "I think I can tell. Why he likes you, I mean. My father."

**Mal reminded Eames of home.**

Their first Christmas together, Mal and Eames spend half the day arguing about how to cook the stew and whether the turkey has enough seasoning and don't put any more salt on the pork and Arthur would slip in between and around them and volunteer for taste tester.

Sometimes, Eames wouldn't even bother arguing. Would just grab Mal around the waist, scoop her up and put her elsewhere. The first time, Mal yelped and did a mixture of fighting and clinging to him for those few seconds she was off the ground.

She had glared at Arthur for smothering the laugh in his hand.

When she would turn the same look on Eames, he would kiss her cheek and say, "Smile, sweetheart, it's Christmas."

After they managed to get dinner sorted—which was entertainment all on its own and half the time, Arthur was satisfied with sitting on his stool by the counter, snatching pieces of whatever was closest before they could notice—they would toast and spread the food on the coffee table with their plates in their laps and watch old black and white movies and Mal, who often finished first—"Because I don't have your stomach. Eames, is that your third plate?" Eames held up four fingers, mouth full and she would roll her eyes. Arthur would just grin at her. "Don't even ask which number I'm on."—would pull out _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ and begin to read.

"It's the perfect Christmas book," she insisted, sitting with her back to the arm of the couch, her toes tucked underneath Arthur's thigh because he was warm.

Neither Arthur nor Eames could disagree, so once they were done, Arthur would sit back and draw a blanket over both his and Mal's legs and Eames would move the armchair closer so he could toy with Mal's hair while she read and Arthur wouldn't think of Vermont and his little sister and his mother watching Charlie Brown with their tree decorated.

_(It's only the next day that any one of the three of them remember that they didn't have a tree. At that, Eames goes out and gets a tree and says to Arthur's expression, "Don't be so uptight, darling. We're only a day late.")_


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs here are Fire of Unknown Origin by Blue Oyster Cult and Paradise City by Guns n Roses.
> 
> Best of luck to everyone in 2014!

* * *

_"Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense, and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts. It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness and without any dread of ridicule."  
~Frederick W. Robertson_

* * *

**Arthur is a fan of classic rock.**

The roads of the American Midwest seemed to never end, stretching out past the horizon. The wide expanse and the lack of many people road-tripping straight across was something that allowed Arthur—usually such a safe driver—to speed a little. It surprised Eames a bit, but he settled back into the passenger seat, feeling the warm wind whip through the open window. It lulled him on and off to sleep; he'd offered to drive, but after the last time, Arthur said that he wasn't in any rush.

Eames woke again, slowly, to the sound of the radio playing.

_Death comes sweeping through the hallway  
Like a lady's dress _

He glanced over at Arthur, kind of bobbing his head to the music and occasionally humming a little under his breath, half a cigarette wobbling between his lips. _(He looks younger at times like these, more like a teenager than the maybe twenty-one year old that he actually is. He's no longer serious, no longer military posture and sharpness; these times, he's a guitar solo and tapping at the steering wheel like he's playing the drums)_ Eames also looked at the time; he'd been out for a while, nearly four hours. No wonder Arthur had turned on the radio.

_Death comes driving down the highway  
In its Sunday best _

"Wouldn't have pegged you for a fan of them, darling," Eames said, not quite lifting his head from where it was cradled by the seatbelt. That was one rule Arthur had insisted upon; that Eames where his seatbelt, despite how it dug a bit into his collarbone.

"Don't sound so disappointed; I thought you liked knowing who didn't fit into their boxes."

_A fire of unknown origin_  
Took my baby   
Took my baby away...

Eames did. And he was very much liking how, the more he learned about Arthur, the more he seemed to have his own, unique box. "To be quite honest, I think you're not in a box at all. Not a square box."

"Oh really?" Arthur said, humoring him.

"Absolutely. Much more circular, like a hat box or something."

Arthur arched an eyebrow at him. "That may be the strangest thing I've ever heard taken literally."

Eames shifted to sit upright, leaning one arm on the window, letting his fingers play in the wind. "Just keeping you on your toes."

_Take me down to the paradise city,  
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty_

"Uh-huh."

Eames smiled a little and looked out at the endless fields, at the fiery picture the sun made as it set. He liked days like this; days when they did nothing but drive. Perhaps one day they could do this without being on the run. And in a car with proper air conditioning. It was a nice thought.

_Oh, won't you please take me home?_

**Arthur has his father's eyes.**

There were old photo books in Emma's house. Arthur and Eames set them aside for Mina to look through. _(Arthur knows the dangers of keeping personal photographs. He's broken the rule once already with Arthur James Reynolds, the only photo he keeps of any of his family)_

Mina joined them in the cleaning of Emma's house on the second day. There was a faint redness to her eyes that said she'd been crying, but she smiled when she saw them and gave Arthur a tight hug. She was herself today, not the wife, not the mother. She wore old jeans with ragged hems, splattered with some bleach stains and a white breast cancer shirt, well-worn and with boxing gloves tied neatly together with a pink ribbon with the words _Fight Like a Girl_ written underneath in bold font.

She went to the kitchen first and stared around, as though waiting. Eames had looked away then; Arthur had done much the same and Eames knew what it was to miss a mother.

She seemed surprised at how clean everything was. Boxes were everywhere, but the floors were swept and the table and countertops spotless. Mina glanced over at Eames, who shook his head.

"I'm not the cleanest sort, I'm afraid. It's all Ar-Cameron."

Mina seemed surprised at that and Eames liked the idea that Arthur had not always been so tidy.

She flipped through the photo books while they all ate lunch. They thought about going out, but it didn't feel right, so Mina ordered pizza and they double-dipped the crusts in the garlic sauce. There was a fond smile on her face through most of the photos, a smile touched with sadness. Eames wondered if Arthur had gone through those books as well.

"…Do you remember this?" Mina turned the book to her brother.

It was a picture of the three siblings stretched out in the shade beneath a large tree. One of the twins—Eames had to take a closer look to be able to say which one, though he could guess by the book in his lap _(He doesn't know if Arthur James Reynolds liked to read. He doesn't know any of his habits and he doesn't know just how different the twins had been in terms of personality)_ —had their legs crossed and neither of them wore glasses yet. Mina's head was on the twin not reading's thigh, the rest of her curled up under a jacket. The other twin was leaning his head on his brother's shoulder, most likely dozing.

"It was the tree outside mom's classroom," Arthur recognized. They'd spent many a schoolday afternoon there, waiting for their mother to be finished with work.

"You broke your arm climbing it," Mina said, smiling.

Arthur shrugged a little. "I was eleven, what can I say?"

"You were dumb, is what. You only did it 'cause you were dared."

Something about the inflection of the words let Eames know exactly who had done the daring.

After Mina had finished looking through the books, she set them aside, though Eames noted that she left the last few pages of each untouched, not even glancing at them. It was after the day was done and Mina kissed them both on the cheek before she left—"God knows what chaos the kids have managed to cause by now," said with a roll of the eyes—and Arthur was showering that Eames looked through the books.

There were a few that were well aged and slightly yellowed. There were lazy days and not-so-lazy days photographed. There were days at a lake, where one of the twins was on a boulder, arms thrown out wide, hair everywhere and Eames could imagine them shouting that they were king of the world. Mina in a ballet class. Emma with her arms around one of her sons, kissing his temple. It went on and on.

The photos got more yellowed as the pages flipped. Photos of the twins holding a baby Mina in her pink blanket. Of first days of school. Of Halloween costumes and Christmases. Of baptisms. There were spaces where photos might have been once. There was one of a man holding both of the twins, one with a leg around each of his neck, chin balanced on the top of his head and the other in his arms, laughing and squirming away at a long ago tickle.

The man was a plain sort of handsome, tall and his shoulders were set in a familiar sort of way, like old military _(Like Arthur's….)_. A day's growth of stubble darkened his jawline and his nose wasn't quite straight anymore. But his eyes were a familiar shade of coffee brown and they were sparkling with laughter in the photo and Eames knew those eyes as well as he knew his own reflection.

_(Arthur will never say that that is his father, but Eames knows)_

There was another photo of a long ago wedding day and Emma was breathtaking—her children had her looks, Mina especially—in her white dress, arm in arm with William Scott Reynolds, who was clean shaven and grinning ridiculously wide, as though he couldn't quite believe his luck. His hair was shorter in this picture, almost military-short. He seemed a little uncomfortable in his tux though in a way that Arthur had never seemed in his suits. The best man was caught in mid-laughter, even as he was clapping.

In the few remaining pictures of him, the man didn't seem like the type to be a dirty cop _(But then, Arthur doesn't seem like the type to be a dream thief. He always seems too polite, too neat for that kind of work and perhaps Arthur and his father have more in common than he's willing to admit)_

**Arthur is good with babies.**

They told Mal they would take care of Phillipa so that she and Dom could have a night to themselves for the first time since the birth. "You deserve it," Arthur insisted, little Phillipa cradled in his arms.

Dom had looked a little uneasy because while Arthur had been dependable in every other aspect, children were a different story. "Are you sure? She's only a few months old, Arthur."

Eames had clapped Dom's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll be here to make sure he doesn't accidentally drop the girl."

That did little for the new father's nerves. Mal just shot Eames a look and slipped her arm into her husband's. "Don't worry. I trust them. Or, I trust Arthur at least."

"I'm wounded that you would think me incapable." But that only made Mal laugh.

"Then prove me wrong," she challenged, knowing Eames wouldn't be able to turn that down.

It wasn't very difficult. Phillipa was an inquisitive baby, but she whimpered more than cried. They took turns holding her when she got tired of lying on the blanket spread on the wide, rocking armchair that usually doubled as a cradle, at least until she would get old enough to roll over. They traded off on movies and TV shows and Arthur dozed off somewhere in between My Fair Lady and Dead Poets' Society.

_(Phillipa reminds Eames of his own little girl, back in England who probably isn't so little anymore and he wants to go back in time to when he could still feel her tug on his hand and hear her call him 'daddy')_

Eames was in the bathroom when he heard Phillipa start crying again. By the time he got back to the living room to see if Arthur needed any help, she had quieted. Arthur had her cradled against his shoulder and was alternating between gently bouncing and rocking her. When Eames strained his ears, he could hear Arthur humming.

_(It takes him a moment, but he wants to laugh out loud when he figures out what Arthur's humming. He'd been expecting some lullaby, but it isn't. He trades off, but the ones Eames catches are Don't Fear the Reaper and Love Me Tender and_ of course _Arthur can't have chosen any normal songs, but they seem to be doing the trick, Phillipa's eyes half-lidded with sleep)_

**Arthur can convince anyone to do just about anything.**

He doesn't quite have the courage to do it. He's managed to get this far, which is an accomplishment, but he can't quite cross the street, can't walk into the store, can't get within ten feet of her.

_(His mind told him how ridiculous he was being. This was his_ daughter)

But she's a sharp one—her mother's daughter, for certain—and it's after less than a week that she notices him. She looks so very like Sherallyn that it hurts a little to see her. But she strides up to him with a brand of confidence and brass that's all unique to her.

She studies him like she doesn't quite know him _(and the truly terrible part was that she didn't. He was a stranger to her, a stranger whose memories were only vague snatches of a voice and old photos. There weren't even really any pictures in his file for Interpol)_ and she asks, "…Dad?"

Eames doesn't know what to tell her. Doesn't know how to talk to her. Logically, it wouldn't be any different than talking to Phillipa or Mina, but it is. "Amara."

What she says next surprises him. "He said you'd show up sooner or later."

Eames blinks at her and can only connect one person between himself and her. "…He spoke to you?"

"Yeah, since he isn't afraid of me. Or for me." She crosses her arms and that angle of her hip, that is all Sherallyn. "Whichever."

"He told you that?"

"Was he wrong?"

"…No." Arthur knows him too well and Eames can't even really accuse him of crossing a line because ever since Amara found him first, he's been invested. She'd involved him.

Her eyes keep studying him and Eames struggles to keep still. His fingers are itching for a cigarette and his feet keep wanting to turn around and walk away. _(In truth, she was looking for similarities. She'd been told for years that she got her looks from her mother, but when she'd get home that night, she would see the same lines of the face, the same curve of the lips. She has her mother's softness, has her nose and her chin, but she is her father's daughter as well)_

Her eyes drop and she shoves her hands inside her pockets. After taking a deep breath, Amara says, "I knew this was a bad idea."

That hurts. _(It was better that she thought that way. It would only keep hurting, but she would be safe)_ "…So why'd you do it?"

Her nose wrinkles and it's an expression he remembers. "I wanted to believe it wasn't and he made it sound like it."

And that means Eames has something to thank Arthur for. "Amara, I'm so sorry."

Her jaw sets and she's back to looking at him. "Oh really? For what? For never being there? For leaving for no apparent reason? For _lying_ to us?"

"And what, specifically, did I lie to you about?"

"That money you sent—it was blood money."

"'Blood money'? I didn't kill anyone." It isn't, strictly speaking, true, but he's only hurt people when they came after him first.

"I'm using the term loosely." She glances around, lowering her voice a little. "Your file says that you're just a forger. A conman, a thief."

Eames keeps silent. He can't forget that she's the government now and he can't know that she won't arrest him.

Amara leans a little closer and there's a threat under her skin. "I'm not stupid. The kind of money you sent doesn't come from little things while still being able to provide for yourself and the things they caught you forging weren't worth that much."

"And if, hypothetically speaking, that was me, why do you sound like you don't believe it?"

"Oh, I believe it. Mom told me some stuff, about the two of you. Before. But there's talk of some technology. Some…device. Lets you go into people's minds." The look on her face says what she thinks about that.

"Sounds like you've been watching too much science fiction, darling."

"I'd say you're right, but in a lot of big cases—these…turnarounds that people seem to be so fond of having. _Billionaires_ , business giants, all with these change of hearts—and everywhere it happens, you seem to always be nearby."

"Are you here to arrest me?"

And for the first time, she hesitates. "…Not today. All I want to know is why you left. For Arthur? Or Justin Peterson? Whoever he pretends to be?"

Eames huffs a laugh. "I didn't meet him until quite a bit later."

"So why?"

"…It's complicated, darling."

Amara spreads her arms, gesturing around her. "I don't have any appointments. I have time."

"Amara!"

They both look to the speaker. He's thin, tall with glasses. Eames catches the Interpol badge clipped to his belt. The light turns green and he's stuck on the other side of the street. "Apparently, you don't."

Before she can say anything, Eames is getting out of there. He wants to stay, wants to keep talking to her, even as his whole body is telling him it's a bad idea. He glances back only once _(And once was enough for Orpheus…)_ and she's staring after him, fists clenched and the tall man joining up with her.

_(Later, when he'd gone the long way home by taking planes to several other places before heading to Nairobi, he won't be surprised when, after two days, Arthur calls and all Eames will only be able to say one thing)_


	30. Chapter 30

* * *

_"You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you."  
~Frederick Buechner_

* * *

**Limbo left a fear like no other.**

There were nights that Eames was afraid to go to sleep. Those weren't so strange; most dream-workers had nights like those. Arthur had had them before he started dreamworking, back in Iraq. _(His brother's face in the dark, familiar fingers in the too-short hair. "You can go to sleep. Don't worry, I won't let anything get you.")_

Usually, they went away after a while, except for the occasional bad night. Eames' never quite went away. Sometimes, he'd stay in bed and Arthur would wake in the middle of the night and find calloused fingers rubbing the locket and familiar gray eyes watching from the other pillow. Other nights, Arthur would get out of bed and find Eames in the kitchen or the living room, usually snacking on something with a book in hand. But not one of his usual books, but brighter ones. Like Harry Potter. Or watching a movie like _French Kiss—_ one of his old favorites. Something easy.

When Eames would notice him, he'd shift so that Arthur fit against his chest and they'd watch the movie together. Or Arthur would switch between dozing and reading random pages. Eames' fingers liked to wander into the gray hairs that were slowly becoming more prevalent and Arthur liked to count the callouses and scars and trace the veins along Eames' hand.

_(This isn't a dream, they're reminding themselves. They know these moments, remember these incidents, remember the stiches and worry, know the sour taste of old angers and old fights)_

Because Eames more than Arthur was afraid of never waking from a dream. Afraid of living out a good life and realizing it was never real. Because all of this—the fear and relief and pain—had to have been for something.

**Eames keeps his wedding ring for years after the divorce.**

While everyone dreamed, Arthur would watch, trying to ignore the pain in his side. He wanted to help Guillermo—the chemist—but he couldn't do very much before he got tired and he had to be so very careful not to overextend his chest muscles that the little he could do was very limited. So he listened and learned about it all, learned about the exact effects of the somancin and the necessity of having the proper chemical balance. Of the theory of multiple levels _(It's intriguing, though the entire concept is. Arthur doesn't know what to make of any of it)_

Arthur learned the dreamers' ticks, their signs of when to wake them. Carter's left leg would jerk when he needed to get out. Amelia's face would scrunch, her entire body going tight. Eames left hand clenched, his thumb going to the gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

_(The people here don't really talk about where they were before all this. Arthur knows that Guillermo had a lab in Texas and that Amelia was born in Ohio and left for the Air Force as soon as she could. That's all he knows for sure. There are rumors. Rumors that Eames was black ops before all this. That Carter had seen his entire team get killed in Afghanistan and went crazy. Arthur doesn't listen to them—they could be true, they could not. He didn't care. He just wanted to get the memory of his brother's half-missing face from his mind, of his last laugh out from the echoing corners of buildings…)_

**Despite evidence to the contrary, Eames is a man who can appreciate a good suit.**

Arthur saw him across the lobby. He saw the eyebrows go up, felt the gaze run up and down.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?" he asked once he reached the other man.

Eames crossed one leg over the other. "Darling, you look utterly stunning." Before now, it had been military dress uniforms and jeans and that old brown leather jacket. But Eames thought that Arthur was rather born for suits.

"Thank you."

Eames stood and they must have made an odd pair, the sleek, neat young man and the unshaven one in a frankly hideous black shirt with mustard yellow paisley underneath a jacket with elbow patches.

Arthur looked him up and down. "You're going to meet the clients like that?"

Eames laughed. "Arthur, the last time I dressed up was for a wedding." He didn't say that it was his own, over five years ago. "If they need a forger so badly, they'll overlook it."

Arthur rolled his eyes and his hand went up to run his fingers through his hair, but stopped himself. His hair was at that strange length where it wasn't quite long enough to make it complacent, but it wasn't short enough to stay in place without gel. _(He won't keep it short though. Not that short. Not ever again. He doesn't want to see his brother's bloodied face in the mirror, a flash of green out of the corner of his eye, one he can never quite convince himself isn't real)_

**Eames doesn't know where home is anymore.**

"I ran, Arthur. I couldn't—I couldn't stand there anymore." Arthur could picture him; Eames had always had a favorite spot to have a phone conversation in his apartment. He was very likely sitting against a portion of wall by the door, phone to his ear, feeling the warmth of Nairobi—so very different from London's dreary colors and gray weather—seep into him as he watched the clothes pinned to the clothesline outside sway in a faint breeze.

_(He hadn't wanted to go. But he hadn't wanted to stay either. His daughter is a fearsome force, all flashing temper and lost child and old anger with only traces of the face he remembers so well)_

For a few minutes, Arthur didn't answer. He didn't know how to do this. His situation with his family hadn't been quite the same. That he knew of, at least. He knew why he and his brother had left home for the military, but he couldn't say why Eames had. He could guess, but that would only lead him down roads he didn't want to go down.

"...Arthur?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm still here."

"I ran from my own daughter." _(He can't even convince himself it had been for a good reason. His feet aren't meant to stay in one place)_

Arthur wasn't good at the comforting business. Particularly when the person wasn't right in front of him. Lying—not conning, for they were two different things on two different levels of personal—tended to leave a bad taste in his mouth _(His father had lied, had made them believe he was a good cop, a good man. He doesn't think he'll ever forgive him for that)_ but he could try. For Eames, he could try.

"…You saw her, Eames. You went and found her." And he could fail because between them, despite everything, it was honesty at the very base of it. "It's—it needed to be done."

He half-expected Eames' temper to lash out at him—not directed at him, per se, but taking it out on him—but Eames just said, "There was a lot more that needed to be done, darling."

Because a daughter had grown without a father, with only vague memories and a check every month. With a few faded photos and her mother's stories. "She's Interpol, Eames."

"You think I don't know that?" There it was. Not quite a snap, but close. The temper was beginning to slip the leash.

"Of course not."

Eames tilted his head back until it thunked gently against the wall. Nairobi was home, a different kind of home that had bits of Arthur now. A spare toothbrush, some suits hanging neatly in the closet, worn T-shirts in the drawers, books on the coffee table. At the same time, it was still familiarly Eames' space and he knew the rough texture of the old couch, the strange softness of the floor despite the lack of carpet. _(He remembers the morning he woke to notice the blend of them. Of Arthur-and-Eames. He'd been in the mood for an omelet and he'd been cooking when he noticed Arthur's glasses on the counter and the fact that they'd been there for some time and his first thought should have been to get out of the apartment, as it had been with Sheral, but it hadn't. He'd simply moved them out of the way and kept cooking)_

"…She'll arrest me. I know it." Amara had a firm set of morals, that much Eames had been able to tell. "If I see her again."

"…Maybe. I think it depends on where she sees you."

"Are you encouraging this, darling?" Eames found his mood slightly uplifted at the thought.

"Oh no. Because it's never been my idea to do something reckless and get the both of us arrested." _(…steal the PASIV and some somancin…)_

His lips curled into a small smile despite himself. "I do believe I've been a bad influence on you."

"Don't sound so proud. You haven't."

"So what is this idea of yours?"

Arthur hesitated. "…How long's it been since you've spent Christmas at home?"

Eames froze. That was a multi-layered question with a faceted answer. Once, Eames could have answered it easily. Home had been a fixed point at the beginning of all this, a sweet little girl and a tart-sweet woman. But at some point, this flat with its sun-stained furniture and wobbly fan had become home. And then came that apartment in Chicago with its neat bookshelves and clean floors and faded, soft blankets with a sharp-tongued, quietly fierce man with hollow-bright eyes.

Now, home was a swirling mix of all of those because Eames felt like a mixture of all those people. Of the man he had been once and could never be again, the man who could hoist his daughter high and chase her playfully through the house when she wanted to avoid bedtime. The man he still saw in the mirror sometimes, the one with a worn golden ring he kept in his pocket and memories of deserts and gunfire still fresh. The man he felt most often, the one who stepped in and out of dreams like they were a simple archway, the one who woke up half the mornings of his current life beside a scarred man who was bluntly honest and smirked more than he smiled.

 _(And then there's the others. The personalities and habits at war with each other, their names screaming out from his memory, their faces and walks sometimes swimming to the forefront of his mind and sometimes he needs to curl up and hold his memories tight—his_ real _memories because otherwise he'll drown)_

"…mes?"

Eames was about to say a number, about to count the years since he left for the military—and he would feel suddenly old—but then he said, "I don't know."

His thumb hit the End button of its own accord. Arthur decided not to call back.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Two Tickets to Paradise by Eddie Money

* * *

_"I think that every person you meet, you fall in love with. Just a little bit. And a piece of them always stays with you. So over time, you collect people and maybe you don't remember every single one, but that doesn't mean that they haven't affected you. For better or worse, they changed you."  
-Anonymous_

* * *

**Arthur is rather flexible.**

When Mal asked if he would do yoga with her, Eames saw the split second Arthur had to say 'no' and he saw it pass because Arthur couldn't ever really say no to her. So Eames settled across the living room, prepared to at the very least, enjoy watching them try yoga.

But Arthur was better at it than Mal, but Eames thought that that was only because he worked out regularly. Mal was graceful and she could hold her own in a fight, but as that wasn't her job and she didn't take a particular pleasure in it, she rarely did it. Yoga was something new she'd be willing to try—and Mal loved to try new things—and she could more or less do the movements.

At first, Eames was simply impressed that Arthur could do even half of them. Most of the movements required a flexibility that Eames had trouble believing that ordinary people had. But after a few minutes, Eames begun analyzing and observing. He saw the graceful arch of the back, the long lines of his legs, but he also saw that Arthur didn't stretch nearly as far on his left side as he did his right _(Eames has to wonder if it's psychological or physical. Arthur's scar doesn't bother him beyond an occasional twinge, as far as Eames knows, but this is different)_.

Eames tried not to think about why he didn't volunteer. His bad leg—the one that didn't bother him ninety-nine point nine percent of the time—would spasm in the middle of it, he knew. He could feel it. He could feel that his bad leg would give out on him because while he could walk and run on it, he wouldn't be able to hold his full weight on it in precariously balanced situations and have to hold the position.

So when they were done and Arthur walked to the kitchen to drink water, Eames grinned at him. "You're very…bendy, darling, has anyone told you that?"

"No, I can't say they have." Arthur was eyeing Eames warily, as if waiting for something.

"I could help you put that bendiness to good use."

"Is that really your best line, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked, capping his water bottle and putting it back in the fridge. "It's not up to your usual standard."

Eames shrugged, unfazed. "They can't all be gems, darling."

**Arthur tells the truth more often than people think he does.**

It's Miami and it's humid and hot, but at least there was the breeze of the nearby ocean to stir the air. Eames felt like every other doorway or window had a different salsa song playing in the neighborhood in Little Havana. He and Arthur were certainly not blending in, not with Arthur in a button shirt, vest held closed with two buttons and his slacks and Eames in his lurid shirts that couldn't be dimmed even with the bright colors and general liveliness of a Hispanic neighborhood.

But Arthur walked the streets confidently, hands in his pockets _(Eames takes a moment to wonder if Arthur has a gun strapped to his thigh, accessible through his pocket. He's done it before, but one closer look and Eames dismisses the idea. Even Arthur can't conceal something with pants that fit like_ that)

He led Eames all the way down, near the river to some older looking buildings. Kids were playing ball in the street, kicking it back and forth and shouting to each other in rapid Spanish while an old man looked on from a plastic chair, cigar in his lips.

"Those things'll kill you, y'know," Arthur said as he came to stand a little away from the old man.

The man looked up from beneath a woven hat. "Who—Arturo!" The man got to his feet and clasped Arthur in an embrace, which Arthur returned, somewhat. "You finally show up here, ah?"

"You told me to visit."

" _Si,_ almost twenty years ago. And you used to be so punctual." The old man's eyes shifted sideways to Eames. "And you?"

"Eames," the forger said, holding out a hand.

"Enrique," the old man introduced himself, shaking Eames' hand shortly. His grip was firm, his palm well-calloused. Enrique then turned back to Arthur and looked him up and down. "Not so skinny anymore, are you?"

"Like you said, almost twenty years. Things change."

"Bah. I've been here these past years. You know what I've seen?" Enrique gestured out at the street. "Kids playing, _los viejitos_ playing dominos. Never changes."

"Sounds like retirement's a lot of fun."

Enrique narrowed his eyes at Arthur. "Not trying to get me back into it all, are you? _Porque_ I like retirement. It's calm. I'm too old for your kind of excitement, _mijo_."

"Then maybe you should be playing dominos."

"Always with a smart mouth, this one. Always has to have the last word."

"And it gets him into trouble too," Eames agreed, flashing a grin at the look Arthur shot him.

"Did he ever tell you the story about—" he held up a hand and sneezed loudly. "Sorry."

Eames went for his own handkerchief _("A man with a handkerchief," Sheral had said when he'd offered it to her. "They still make those?")_ but Enrique waved him away, instead reaching inside his shirt to the right side of his chest and pulling out his own.

_("…had a hole clean through his shoulder…keep a spare hankie…")_

After Enrique had blown his nose, he looked at the both of them. "But where are my manners? Come inside. Jaime," one of the older boys looked up, distracted momentarily from the ball game. "Keep an eye on your cousins!"

The man's apartment was warm, with children's toys scattered in corners and crumpled blankets on the sofas. Photographs lined the walls, one of a younger looking Enrique in a Marine uniform.

"You guys want coffee? Or tea?" Enrique asked as he led them to the kitchen.

Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Tea? Say it isn't so."

"My doctors say it's better for my health, so I buy them to keep my daughter from complaining. I say _que se joden_. I've lived this long; some tea isn't going to help much."

The man was resilient, Eames would give him that.

"Tea for me, please," Eames said.

A sound of acknowledgment. "I don't even need to hear it, Arturo. Coffee?"

"Naturally."

It was a pleasant visit, with chatting and a way of catching up that glossed over a lot, but the important things still got across. Eames read Enrique, listening more than talking. Scars on the hands and he sometimes favored the left shoulder—the old injury was acting up. Eames knew the feeling and felt his bad leg twitch involuntarily. A careless kind of slouch, but there was old military written in the way he tilted his head.

_(It isn't the physical that tells Eames the most about him. It's the way he looks at Arthur with respect, with an old camaraderie and the way the Arthur does the same. There aren't many men who have managed to earn Arthur's respect)_

In the car later, Eames was in the passenger seat, the lingering taste of a cigarette on his tongue as Arthur drove up out of Miami towards St. Augustine. "…You really weren't kidding, were you? When you told me about him."

Arthur shook his head.

"Was he with you? In Iraq?"

"…Yeah." Eames caught the reflexive twitch of Arthur's right hand, a move towards his dog tags that had been aborted. "He was one of the ones who found me."

_(Found him sobbing and frozen beside his brother's body, half-burnt alive himself. Had been there while he recovered and had gotten himself shot for his trouble because he hadn't wanted to leave a fellow Marine behind)_

Eames wasn't going to touch that subject. "Was he discharged after the injury or did he retire?"

"A bit of both. They were going to discharge him, so he left before they could. Told them that he was still strong enough to make his own decisions."

"He's stubborn."

Arthur hummed an agreement, but fell silent. The silence stretched, loose and comfortable between them—as always, with a hint of tension—but after a few minutes, Eames clicked the radio on.

 _I've got two tickets to paradise,  
_ _Won't you pack your bags, we'll leave tonight,_  
I've got two tickets to paradise,   
I've got two tickets to paradise…

**Arthur stress-cleans.**

Eames knew that this job was going to be a pain already. He'd come on late and just off a different job—he was kept far too busy—and when he entered the basement in Nairobi and greeted Arthur, he could smell it on him.

Lemon-scented Pledge. Eames had a feeling that he'd go home tonight and find his apartment spotless, the bookshelves wiped down, half a roll of paper towels in the garbage, the floor swept and mopped.

It was after everyone left that Eames bent to kiss the corner of Arthur's mouth before sitting beside him, feet up on another chair. "So what's going to make our lives a small hell until next week when this job's over?" he asked conversationally.

Arthur glanced at him. "What makes you say that?"

A tilt of a smile. "You smell lemony fresh, darling."

Rolled eyes and a huff of breath that could be a laugh. Arthur was far too accustomed to him and his observations to be bothered by them anymore. He leaned back and said, "The mark's brother-in-law."

"How so?"

Eames leaned closer as Arthur explained and he didn't know when he started liking the smell of lemons—he used to hate them as a child—but he rather thought that Arthur was to blame.

**Arthur doesn't believe in soul mates.**

They had had an easy day. Walks around Paris, slipping into little shops and buying sweet cakes and coffee. Enjoying lunch outside and stealing bites of each other's food. Eames found his restlessness at peace, had no desire to leave the city, to leave these two wonderful people and, for a day, he didn't think about his tart-sweet ex-wife or his little girl.

They sat beneath a tree as the sun set. Arthur was stretched out comfortably—jeans and a shirt on which he'd left the first two buttons undone—back to the tree and Mal's head pillowed on his thigh, the skirt of her dress spread beneath her. Eames himself was lying in the dying sunlight, enjoying the last of the day's warmth on his skin.

"Arthur," Mal asked, her voice a part of the wind.

Arthur hummed an acknowledgment, slightly drowsy. _(It's not something that happens in public and Eames is always pleased to see it, even if, as time goes on, it will grow rarer and rarer)_

"Do you believe in soul mates?"

His eyes widened a little and he looked down at her, his fingers still tangled in her hair. "Like, true, star-crossed love kind of thing?"

"Mm."

The point man snorted. "No. It's ridiculous."

"You think so?"

"What, you don't?" Arthur's interest was piqued, but then, Mal had always been a strange kind of romantic. Not quite as much as Eames, but close.

"Did you know that the Greeks believed that, once, there was no male or female? They believed that all souls were one. Then when those souls were torn apart, that was when male and female were created. The Greeks thought that when you found the other half of your soul that it would be your perfect lover."

"I've heard that," Eames said. His grandmother had spoken of things like that in the short time he'd known her.

"I hadn't." Eames wanted to mark the day in his calendar, the day he knew something Arthur didn't and the point man shot him a look, like he knew exactly what the forger was thinking.

"I wasn't finished," she told them. "Honestly, you're both so impatient. That other half, I think that, if you ever found them, that you would be too alike to be lovers, but you would still be soul mates."

Arthur smiled a little, indulgingly. "And where'd this come from? Don't tell me that Dom's got you all weak at the knees?"

Mal pushed his arm slightly, playfully. "No, of course not. I learned it the other day and it got me thinking."

"That you found your soul mate?" Arthur still sounded skeptical. Eames was of the mind that 'skeptical' was Arthur's default setting.

Mal smiled at him. "I do."

"You don't mean me?"

"Who else?" She turned to Eames, a hand on his arm. "Not to exclude you."

Eames shook his head and rolled onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his arms. "No, no. I'm enjoying this." _(It makes sense to him in a way that settles easily. Arthur and Mal, soul mates? It clicks._ They _click. They always have, ever since day one and Eames loves them both and perhaps it's because they're half of each other)_

"Well," Arthur said, looking down at her. "When you put it that way…" For he hadn't ever really wanted her as a woman. Oh, he could appreciate her, could love her soft curves and steel spine, the gentle lines of her face and the elegant slope of her neck, but he had never wanted her like that.

"You still don't, I can tell," Mal laughed, eyes sparkling. "You are too stubborn."

"That's what I've been telling him for years, but he doesn't listen." Eames grinned at the expression on Arthur's face. "It's true, darling and you know it."

"And I'm the only one that doesn't listen? You're worse than I am!"

Eames blinked innocently, a hand to his heart. " _Moi?_ "

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you." He returned his attention to the woman in his lap. "Did he ever tell you about the time he got us lost in suburbia hell?"

"It wasn't that bad—"

And Mal laughed at their arguing, a silvery, unabashed sound that wound around them and never let go. They argued each other into a comfortable silence until Mal rolled over onto her side.

"Do you believe in them, Eames?" she asked, eyes dark in the nearly-gone sunlight.

"Soul mates?" And he saw the both of them there, lovely and slender, knife-sharp wit and sleek smiles _(He doesn't want to give this up, never wants to leave them)_ and he said, "Sometimes."


	32. Chapter 32

* * *

_"Someday, after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love and then, for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire."  
-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin_

* * *

**There is one game Eames won't play at casinos.**

Arthur would watch Eames with a deck of cards, shuffling and counting and watching because while math might not have been his strong suit, he knew how to count cards and knew the odds and timing. Arthur knew the theory behind it, but Eames was well-practiced enough in it that he had never felt the need to put his theory into practice.

Ariadne would play cards with them sometimes after work. She learned quickly not to bet money though.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm _much_ better at strip poker," Eames told her and both she and Arthur rolled their eyes.

But the one game that Arthur was always the one to play if the mark insisted was blackjack and Arthur tried not to think of the tattoo on Eames' arm, a moon hooked onto a sun and a best friend who never made it to twenty-one.

**Eames has slight OCD.**

There are times, few of them, when Arthur would come home and find all of the pots and pans out of the cabinets, stacked on the dining table. The mop was in the bucket, leaning precariously against the wall. A paper towel roll sat on the counter.

Those times, Arthur would step into the kitchen around the small maze of Tupperware—that wasn't his because he'd never had enough leftovers to buy Tupperware for—to drop a kiss on Eames; lips before retreating out of the war on the kitchen that Eames was waging. He'd read or work for a few hours until he felt it was safe enough to brave the area again.

By then, Eames would most likely have already arranged his pans by size and be working on the cabinets with the glasses and mugs.

"How's it coming?" Arthur asked.

Eames leaned back against the counter. "I blame you for this, darling."

Arthur took a sip of Eames' water bottle on the counter, eyebrow arched in interest. "How so?"

"It's your neatness rubbing off on me. I was perfectly happy to live in messiness before I met you."

"Somehow, I don't believe you. Not when it comes to your kitchen."

 _(Eames isn't used to it yet, them sharing things. Though the kitchen is technically his, it is in Arthur's apartment and they share a couch and a bed and a closet and it seems so very strange to have 'our' things again)_ "Well, it was rather spotless when I got here. For entirely different reasons, of course."

Arthur flicked a used paper towel at him. "And here I thought you'd be happy to get a kitchen all to yourself."

"It was so underappreciated," Eames sighed before hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. Sometimes, he seemed too big for this space. Too much energy and mischief for Arthur's apartment. _(It's strange. Arthur has never gotten unused to that kind of energy. His brother had it and Eames had come along right after. He doesn't know how to live without that kind of energy in his life)_

Arthur leaned his forearms on the counter beside Eames, looking up at him. "Are you sure you're still talking about the kitchen?"

"Well," Eames said, eyes sly. "I can think of a few ways you can appreciate me."

"Only a few?" Arthur said as he stepped between Eames' knees. Tugging him down, Arthur whispered against his lips, "That's rather disappointing. You need to learn to dream a little bigger."

**Eames can be impulsive.**

Eames saw her before Christmas and Arthur only knew about it because of a single phone call.

"Darling," he began and Arthur could tell from the tone that this wasn't going to end well. "I'm in a bit of a spot."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before going to grab a pistol and he hovers over the silver briefcase. He didn't know quite the nature of the trouble yet. "How bad this time?"

"Well, you're my one phone call, for starters."

"Uh-huh. And where are you?"

A chuckle. "You said it yourself, she's very good."

An ice block dropped into Arthur's stomach. _("…I find you in the field, or him, and I'll arrest you…")_ "Interpol? You got your ass caught by _Interpol_?"

"Well, it wasn't part of the plan, but yes."

"…You went back to London, didn't you?" The last Arthur had heard from him had been the phone call from Nairobi, a safe place, but that had been nearly four days ago.

"You know me too well."

"And you want me to bust you out?"

"Preferably. But this was mostly to let you know."

Arthur dropped the gun on the bed before sitting on the edge. "Eames, did you let yourself get caught?"

"My professional pride is hurt that you think I'd do that." But not his personal pride. Arthur knew the stakes and knew about Interpol's newest hotshot _(Amara Evans, she always says when people ask and usually it's what she writes down, but sometimes, there's a slip and it'll be Amara Reed, just like it says on her birth certificate)_

"Answer me, Eames."

"…I don't know." A lot of his answers had been like that lately and it made Arthur wary. He didn't know what to do about it, but he knew it couldn't be good for Eames.

"I'm going there." It wasn't a question. Arthur would have to ditch this phone now; he didn't know if Interpol had traced the call and he wasn't about to risk it.

He heard the hesitation, heard Eames glancing around, taking in everything about the room in a few seconds. "…Be careful, darling."

**Eames remembers how limbo feels.**

The last Thanksgiving they have—the last real one, where everyone is together and there is no darkness marring the memory—is at Dom and Mal's house and the kids are playing in the yard, chasing each other. Philippa and James are ecstatic to have their cousins to play with and Mal's mother comes in with pecan pie and Miles laughs as his grandchildren run to greet him.

Eames is helping Mal in the kitchen and she seems different. Not as lively. "Is everything alright?" he asks as he drops marshmallows onto the sweet potato casserole.

Mal smiles and it's a world-weary expression that matches the look in her eyes that is too old for her. "I've just been feeling tired lately."

"Are you sure? You could be sick," Eames checks her temperature with his wrist. "No fever."

"I'm not sick." And those words had a little too much of a snap to them.

"But you're not well, are you?"

Before she can answer—or not answer, as he suspects the case would be—Arthur come in juggling cans of food and Mal goes to help him. He smiles gratefully and kisses her cheek in greeting. "Sorry I'm late. The supermarket was hell."

He peeks around Eames to see what he's working on and Eames sees his eyes light up. Arthur loves sweet potatoes, particularly if they have marshmallows and cinnamon. Eames pushes the tray away a little, just out of Arthur's reach, before turning to lean his hip on the counter. Arthur glances up at him in question.

Eames' lips curve in a strange twist that is half smile and half smirk. "I forgot my apron, but I thought that you of all people would want to kiss the cook. Well, if you want sweet potatoes, that is."

A roll of the eyes and Arthur take a step closer and lean up, close enough that Eames can feel his breaths, but pulls away, a slow smirk on his lips. Eames frowns in confusion and when Arthur takes a step back, Eames sees the tray in his hand. "I don't negotiate with blackmailing terrorists, Mr. Eames."

That makes Eames laugh and he tugs him closer by the hip, nearly causing to overbalance. They aren't in hiding, but neither do they flaunt it. "I think I can change that."

"You can try."

Mal's voice interrupts them. "If you two are done, we need the potatoes."

When they break apart, there is a change in her. She doesn't look as tired and worn out with her eyes sparkling like that, a fond smile on her lips. She had been the first to know about them. Arthur walks past her to set the tray on the many tables they've pushed together to make space. Eames offers her his arm. "My lady," he says, bowing theatrically and that brings a chuckle bubbling out of her as she slips her arm through his.

But all through dinner, through the shared stories and the jokes, Eames keeps an eye on her at Dom's side. She cuts James' meat for him and combs Philippa's stray hairs out of her face. Both she and Dom seem the same, too old for their bodies and Eames remembers _(An ocean filled with glass shards and green lightning and seeing Arthur James Reynolds always around his daughter—his beautiful little girl that he got to spend so much more time with…)_ and he hopes he's wrong.


	33. Chapter 33

* * *

_"We need men who can dream of things that never were."  
-JFK_

* * *

**Arthur plans ahead.**

"So, Mr…Eames, is it?"

He looked up. His daughter—no, she wasn't his daughter right now. Now she was the Interpol agent, business-like and smooth—sat across from him, legs crossed and hands folded on the table in front of her. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, some gel keeping the stray hairs back. A suit jacket and white button shirt with black slacks, her badge clipped to her belt. No jewelry. No make-up. Some chap stick. Clear nail polish, nails trimmed.

Her partner was beside her. Tall, thin, flyaway brown hair, glasses. Watch on the left wrist. Tan lines where a ring had sat on the fourth finger of his left hand. Utterly ordinary. He didn't seem a threat, but Eames knew better than to underestimate people.

"Yes, agent," Eames glanced at her badge. He had to play the part. "Evans, is it? Rather young to be in this line of work, aren't you?"

"And you're rather old to have thought you could keep getting away with," She looked down at the file beneath her hands. The file was a good inch thick and Eames didn't know whether to be proud that his file managed to be like that or unsettled that they had that much on him. "Forgeries, theft, grand theft, automobile theft, kidnapping and dream theft."

"I'm sorry—what was that last one?"

"Dream theft. But no need to concern yourself with the lie, Mr. Eames. You've made quite a few enemies. Enemies that would, and have, sold you out for a few less years in prison."

"And you believed them? Listen to yourself; stealing things from dreams? It's something out of science fiction."

She made a noise in her throat. Arthur was right; she was very good. No flicker of emotion in the face or the eyes, every word carefully measured, every movement purposeful. _(It's a strange sense of pride there. This is his daughter, there can be no doubt)_ "And that's why you were wanted in the United States since 2005 for possession of stolen government property? Property that is in actuality a Portable Automated Somancin IntraVenous, better known as a PASIV?"

Amara had done her homework. And beyond. She wouldn't find many things that referenced a PASIV in government files beyond failed experiments. Before Eames could respond, someone knocked at the door before walking in.

"His lawyer's here."

Lawyer? Eames' thought was echoed aloud by Amara and her partner. But it clicked the next moment and Eames bit down on a smile.

"Let him in." Amara sounded annoyed.

She stared as Arthur strode in, slick and confident as anything, plain black briefcase in hand. He'd likely been searched before entering the building, but Eames wasn't concerned. Arthur didn't really need a weapon to do damage, especially not in this small a space.

Her lips quirked. "Arthur."

He smiled at her, not quite cold, but definitely chilly and still managing to pull off polite. "I'm sure I don't know who you're talking about, Agent…Evans. My name is Jon Lumars and I'm here to represent my client."

"Jon Lumars," Amara repeated and her tone was exactly the same as her mother's when she knew that someone was lying. "How very convenient of you to come."

Arthur sat beside Eames, looking surprised. "Convenient? Nothing of the sort. Mr. Eames called me to ask if I could be here. You understand how things can get turned around so quickly in law enforcement."

She matched his smile and Eames wondered if this was what happened when unstoppable force met immovable object. Of course, that just left the question of which one was which.

"I understand perfectly, Mr. Lumars. Now, about your client—"

A shrill ringing split the air and everyone covered their ears. A fire alarm. They were ushered out as the overhead sprinklers started and everyone was filing out. In the chaos of everyone in the halls, Arthur managed to grab Eames' wrist and pull him with him as he slipped through the crowd.

They didn't speak until they were out a back door and sprinting out past the parking lot into the city. When they stopped to catch their breath, Eames laughed breathlessly because Arthur looked somewhat drowned, his hair, so neat not twenty minutes ago, was dripping in his face and his suit was clinging to him.

"How'd you make the alarm go off?"

Arthur pushed his hair back out of his face, nose wrinkling at the state of his clothes. "Gave a guard a pack of cigarettes in exchange for him to set off the alarm."

"What?"

Arthur shrugged. "He was getting twitchy—cigarettes are expensive these days—so he was more than willing to do it."

 _(It's been so long that Eames isn't sure if Arthur had always been that observant or if it's something he'd picked up over the years)_ "Very high school bad boy of you, darling," Eames said, feeling his breath coming back. His lungs were itching with a cough.

"What makes you think I wasn't one?" Arthur asked, mischief in his eyes even as he looked around for Interpol to realize what they'd done. "We need to get out of the city before they manage to lock it down."

"Lead the way."

**Arthur is a man of his word.**

It was at Dom and Mal's wedding that Arthur came up to him, sleek in his suit, but not quite the point man. The point man wasn't this warm, didn't have the content looseness to his posture. It was an interesting sight.

"Unless I'm mistaken," Arthur began. "I owe you a dance." _(Sinatra and an aw-shucks smile before the three of them had walked home beneath the stars. "One day, maybe….")_

Eames looked at the offered and chuckled as he took it, standing up. "I thought you'd never ask."

**Arthur can't forget Mal and Eames can't either.**

Even after so long, Dom still found it very difficult when it came to Mal's death. He came with them to the cemetery as he always did, but halfway through the visit, he had to take a walk. Eames waved him away; he and Arthur could watch the kids.

The kids who weren't so small anymore. Phillipa was nearly twelve and James was nine. James tugged at Arthur's hand. Arthur knelt in front of him. "What is it?"

James got on his toes to whisper something in his ear, glancing back at Phillipa before he did so. James' hair had darkened a bit as he got older, a brown that was a little too light to be Mal's color, but he had her intelligence—both kids did, really—and her thoughtful nature, despite his usual bursts of boyish energy.

Arthur looked at him and Eames noticed the softness in his eyes. These kids were the only ones who did that. Even with Mina, there was a certain guardedness. Too much history even there. But with the kids, everything was different. "You want to hear about her?"

_(It breaks Eames' heart to hear that. James had been so little when it happened. Phillipa remembers her mother sometimes, errant details or the songs she sang. But James…)_

Arthur, sitting on his heels, looked back at Mal's grave marker. "Well…she was…one of the prettiest women I've ever known. And one of the kindest."

Eames felt Phillipa slip out from beneath his hand on her shoulder, easing closer. "Dad tells us that too, but…we don't really _know_ anything about her."

Arthur looked to her. "…She loved to dance. And listen to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, Doris Day…the classics."

"And then Arthur got her liking Elvis," Eames said, picking a leaf out of Phillipa's hair.

Phillipa smiled a little. "Yeah?"

"Oh, absolutely. What else?"

"What did she like to eat?"

"To eat?" Arthur repeated. "She liked…apples. Apple tarts, apple sauce, apple crepes, apple juice, anything."

"Sour apples?"

"Yes, yes she liked sour apples. They were her favorite flavor in candy too. But she didn't like lollipops."

James' eyes went wide. "Didn't like lollipops?"

Eames chuckled a little. "No, she didn't."

"What was here favorite?"

"Candy? Jolly Ranchers, usually. Or Skittles."

"Hey, I like those!"

"…How did her and dad meet?" Phillipa asked. She wore glasses now, pale blue and black frames. _(They'd worried, when she got them, that she would get teased. But Phillipa is good at surprising them. She'd inclined her chin proudly and said with all the surety of an eight year old, "Glasses mean you're smart")_

Arthur and Eames glanced at each other. Sometimes, they thought that there were a lot of things Dom should tell the kids and those times, Eames—and even Arthur occasionally—got angry with him because he was letting the bad memories of Mal taint the good ones. _(Arthur gets a lot less angry with Dom for this and a lot less often. He thinks of his brother and explosions and how, as time goes on, he can't remember as many of these kinds of details about him. He can't remember what his favorite soda had been or whether he liked tea or not and that knowledge shames him)_

"Did you ask your dad that?" Arthur asked gently.

"He…he doesn't like to talk about her much. Sometimes, he will. If it's a really good day."

"They met…for work. They were finishing up college."

"In Paris, right? Where Ariadne lives?"

"That's right. There was a job that they both wanted and when they went to try for it, that's when they met."

Phillipa's nose wrinkled. "That sounds so…simple."

 _(Eames doesn't think that the kids should know about dream-sharing and Arthur agrees with him. Most of the time. Sometimes, Arthur thinks that James, in particular, has his mother's talent for the work)_ Arthur smiled at her. "Were you expecting a fairy tale?"

"No, but…I dunno. It doesn't sound right." Phillipa had a good sense of intuition.

"Well if it makes you any better, your dad had to work for it," Eames told her. "Your mother was…very independent."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. One of the people that worked with them even told him that, if he wanted to go out with her, that he'd better make sure it was going to be serious because she was fiery. And after he worked up the courage, she turned him down the first few times."

_(Eames remembers this with surprising clarity, remembers splitting a crepe for breakfast between them as she told him about the persistent guy who kept asking her out. He remembers offering to scare him off and she'd waved him away. "He's not dangerous. I can take care of him.")_

"She didn't like dad the first time?" James asked as though the very idea was ridiculous.

"No. She actually only agreed to go on a date because she thought it would make him stop asking. But then she started to like him." Arthur glanced up and saw Dom standing just within earshot, a sad, faint smile on his face. "I think your dad's ready to go."

_(Dom will tell them, later, that sometimes, he thinks that it would have been better for both him and Mal if he'd listened to her when she turned him down. Arthur won't agree, but he won't disagree either and Eames doesn't say that he thinks that Mal would have disagreed with him. He remembers her happiness the day of the wedding, the night she called them to tell them that she was engaged, the fond smile on her lips when she would talk about Dom. Surely that happiness had to have been worth all of this.)_

**Arthur knows that Eames could break him; he isn't afraid.**

It was some impossible hour hanging between midnight and dawn. Eames could feel the occasional cool breeze through the open window. He looked down at the other body half-tangled with his. Arthur was still a little skinny—there were, after all, still those dry periods without jobs for two people on the run. Still those days when they ran out of somancin and didn't have the money to pay a chemist to make more. Days when they worked odd jobs around the city to try and scrape something together—but times had been good enough lately that he was filling back out. If Eames moved his hand over on Arthur's side an inch, maybe two, he'd feel the roughness of his scar, the scar that sometimes was still sensitive to touch and that, if Arthur turned the wrong way too suddenly, would pain him.

Eames was of the opinion that Arthur was and was not a fragile person. Or perhaps it was that he was fragile and fought against it, learned to live with it. But even that didn't quite fit. Eames considered the dog tags that never left Arthur's person, the ones that read Arthur James Reynolds. He wasn't too trusting, but when he did trust, it was with his loyalty, not his secrets. But Eames knew his secrets—not all of them. There were too many to know—but he knew about the dog tags, about the twin brother that died in the explosion that gave Arthur his scar. The brother whose name he'd taken.

It was both a strange and terrible thought to pass through his mind; that information that Arthur had given him that day in Florida, sitting against an air conditioning vent, was enough to break him. Perhaps not for most people, but for a man of Eames' skills, it was perfectly possible.

And as he laid there, mind working too much to sleep and looking down at the other man, he said it without thinking. "…I could break you."

Arthur's eyes cracked open. "You won't." He sounded drowsy, still being tugged at by sleep.

"But I can."

"Yes, you can," Arthur agreed, shifting his arms so that they were folded on Eames stomach, chin resting on them. He was more awake now and Eames felt the lean muscles shift as he moved and he was reminded that Arthur was dangerous, despite his taste for Elvis and his love of sci-fi. "But you're forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?"

One of Arthur's hands went to toy with the slim gold chain around Eames' neck. "I can break you back."


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Leaving on a Jet Plane by John Denver.

  
_"Sometimes, Ms. Lane, one must break with one's past to embrace one's future. It is never an easy thing to do. It is one of the distinguishing characteristics between survivors and victims. Letting go of what was to survive what is."  
_ _-Jericho Barrons (Darkfever by Karen Marie Moning)_   


* * *

**Eames hates _Titanic_.**

"You actually like it?" Eames asked, gesturing at the screen. _Titanic_ was one of those movies that came on every once in a while and Arthur liked the cinematics of it, even if the actual romance of it, he found rather weak.

"It's not a movie I'll go buy, but I don't have the absolute loathing that you seem to have," Arthur said, flipping a page in his book. _Titanic_ was the kind of movie that you didn't really have to pay attention to after you'd seen it the first time. In truth, he'd just wanted some background noise. "Which, why is that? You're the romantic one; I thought you'd've liked this movie."

"You confuse romantic for ridiculous, darling. That's no way to make a love story believable."

Arthur closed the book, keeping his place with his finger. He had a feeling that this discussion would get interesting. "And why isn't it believable?" Not that he disagreed, but he wanted to know Eames' reasoning behind it.

"It's like bloody _Romeo and Juliet_. They're kids who, if Jack had lived, they would've either ended up hating each other or falling apart. That was lust, not love."

"So if this isn't the supposed 'ultimate romance movie'," Eames heard the air quotes without Arthur having to use his fingers. "Then what is?"

Eames lifted Arthur's feet to sit on the other end of the couch, placing them in his lap. "Romance movie?"

"Mmhm. And if you say _The Notebook,_ I'll shoot you."

Eames laughed. "Not a fan of it?"

"Of any of the Nicholas Sparks movies. They're all so predictable and they end too perfectly. Life doesn't work that way."

"True enough…Well, as far as chemistry goes, _Silence of the Lambs_ is up there."

" _Silence of the Lambs_?" Arthur repeated.

"Well, yes." Eames looked like he didn't know why Arthur was surprised. "Clarice and Hannibal Lector had fantastic chemistry, despite limited screen time. It's why the director wanted the movie to come out on Valentine's Day. He thought it was the perfect date movie."

Arthur shouldn't be surprised that Eames knew that sort of random information. He loved to watch the special features. "Did you watch it on a date?"

Eames smiled a little and it was touched with fondness. "Yes, actually. It was Sheral's idea. It's still one of her favorites."

_(Sometimes, Arthur wonders if Eames and Sheral had been their own kind of Romeo and Juliet, their own Jack and Rose. Kids who thought they were in love and ended up falling apart)_

"…You still haven't answered my question. You said that _Silence of the Lambs_ had good chemistry, but not romance."

"Romance…perhaps not the most romantic movie ever, but _Fiddler on the Roof._ " Arthur arched an eyebrow, but settled himself more comfortably against the arm of the sofa to hear the argument. Eames' fingers ran almost absent-mindedly along his calves, tracing designs only he could see. "Tevye and Golde. That song where they realize they've been married for twenty-five years and they'd learned to love each other? I think that's how it works. Love doesn't just…happen."

Arthur had never actually seen _Fiddler on the Roof_ all in one sitting. He tended to fall asleep, if only because of the pace of the movie and not because he disliked it. But he remembered the part that Eames talking about. "…I could see that. Doesn't change the fact that you're a romantic."

Eames flashed a smile. "You wouldn't like me otherwise. What about your romantic movie?"

"The first really romantic thing I remember watching was _Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves._ When Robin is asked if Marian was worth it and he says 'worth dying for'."

"You would remember that," Eames said, leaning back to put his feet on the coffee table. Once, Arthur would have shoved them off or glared at him until he took them off, but the old table had seen enough years that Arthur did nothing more than glance between Eames and the table.

"And I loved to watch _The Mask of Zorro_ as a kid. Used to think Catherine Zeta-Jones was one of the most beautiful women in the world. But I like the romantic aspect of that movie."

_(Sometimes, Arthur thinks that it says a lot that the movie he used to watch so much that he nearly had it memorized by the time he was in third grade had a main character who was two very different people, a nobleman and the hero and that only his love interest seemed to notice that there was more to him)_

"…I think as a real romance movie, it would have to be _Shall We Dance?._ Same principle, I suppose. That love takes work."

Eames snorted and Arthur caught the thought as it flashed across his face. _Not a romantic bone in your body._ And Arthur couldn't disagree.

**Eames can be a bit of a sap.**

Arthur was woken to a warmth against him and familiar lips on his. He stirred and leaned a little in to the kiss. It took a moment for his sleepy mind to notice that Eames was murmuring something.

" _So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you'll wait for me, hold me like you'll never let me go,"_ Arthur opened his eyes at that, pulling back slightly. He noticed everything in an instant. Eames was dressed for the day and he had a duffel bag packed by the door. "' _Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane, I don't know when I'll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go."_

Arthur leaned back into his pillow, one arm hooked around Eames' neck. "Feeling sappy this morning, Mr. Eames?"

Eames laughed a little and he was close enough that the sound vibrated against Arthur's chest. "Haven't you ever heard about variety and spices, darling?"

"And I thought you tried to avoid clichés."

"Like the plague," Eames agreed. "Phillip called."

"Morocco Phillip?"

"Mm. Said he needed my help for something."

A crease formed between Arthur's brows. "A job?"

"Not the dreaming kind. Good old fashioned thieving, who would've thought?"

"What's the target?"

A slow smirk crawled across Eames' lips. "Keep an eye out. I'm sure it'll make the papers in some countries."

"Subtlety never was your strong suit."

A last kiss, lingering a little before Arthur let his arm fall to allow Eames to push himself off the bed. He picked up the duffle bag and as he left the apartment, Arthur could hear his voice drifting back. _"Every place I go, I'll think of you. Every song I sing, I'll sing for you. When I come back, I'll bring your wedding ring, so kiss me and smile for me…"_

**There is a place that Eames visits every summer he's in London.**

Arthur had never questioned it. Most times, Eames elected to stay in the airport when they were in London, even if they had several hours between one flight and another. _(He knows with an old instinct that it's to prevent the temptation of going to see the ex-wife and daughter that Arthur knows he misses)_ But in the summer, he would always say he'd be back in an hour or so and not to worry.

Arthur thought about following him. It wasn't as if Eames hadn't done much the same, following him to his brother's grave. But this was different. He wasn't sure how, but it felt that way. So he didn't do it.

But, as per their supposed new try at fewer secrets, he did ask.

Eames stared at him, as though he hadn't expected it. In truth, Arthur hadn't really expected himself to ask either. Eames didn't answer right away. But Arthur watched his right hand go to his left upper arm where Arthur knew the first tattoo was, the sun hooked with a moon.

"…Paying my respects." And Eames hadn't said much about Charlie Anderson, ever, but Arthur knew enough about brothers to recognize something close when he saw it. So he just nodded and told him that the plane left in two and half hours, to not be late.

**Eames has two lives: the past and the present. They're not meant to mix.**

They disappeared for a month and a half. No contact with the outside world. It wasn't hard from a tiny apartment in Poland. _(It's quiet, in some ways. Arthur doesn't ask why Eames allowed himself to be caught and Eames doesn't offer explanations)_ Afterwards, they travelled back to the States by way of Mexico and dropped by to visit Cobb.

Arthur was the first to notice as they were going up the walkway. He could hear the kids playing in the backyard, but the front door opened before they got there _(And Dom never does that because Arthur has a key, has always had a key and oh, Dom is going to murder them if they survive this)_.

Amara stepped out, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe and both Arthur and Eames froze. She smiled at them and it was an expression carved from ice. "Mr. Eames and Mr…Peterson, is it? Or do you go solely by Lumars now?"

"I don't know any Peterson," Arthur replied automatically, trying to give himself time to think. From the corner of his eye, he caught Eames' hand slipping in his pocket and he could imagine the poker chip clenched tightly in his hand right now.

"Of course you don't. My apologies. You just reminded me of someone I met."

"I've been told I have one of those faces."

"I'm sure."

"How'd you find this place?" Arthur wanted to know.

Her eyes—the same sharp gray as her father's—flicked between them. "…Dream-theft isn't a very wide field as of yet. Not in legal terms. And there was a certain name that was very big a few years back before it dropped from every law enforcement watchlist. Dominic Cobb, accused of murdering his wife on their anniversary by pushing her out a window."

_(She sees their reactions, sees the minute flinch of the man she can't prove is Arthur and the tightening of her father's jaw, the flash of expression. It only solidifies her theory; they had known the Cobbs, which only makes sense as to why they're here)_

"And why are you here, Agent Evans?" Eames still was silent beside him and Arthur had the urge to kick him, elbow him, something in order to jar a reaction.

_(She doesn't know what to tell them. To make an arrest or to speak with her father)_

So she didn't give them a straight answer. "…Explain to me more about dream-theft."

"Why?"

"I could arrest you now."

And they could run. But she had found this place, this touchstone. How much were they willing to give up for their work? _(Their work, their lives, their passion, their addiction, their terrible, heartbreakingly beautiful dreams…)_

"And if we answer your questions?"

Amara shrugged, a smooth, careless movement. "Then we'll see."

"Not good enough," Arthur told her bluntly.

"Depends on how much you tell me. As bruising to your ego as it may be, you two are not my biggest problems out there. If you can help me catch them, then—well, you guys are good at avoiding the law. Who's to say I'm not one of the other…I'm gonna go with dozens, of agents or military police who were just not good enough? You'll have slipped through my fingers once again."

The terrible part was that she was the only one good enough. Good enough to have found them, to have connected the dots into the complex pattern they'd woven over a little more than a decade now.

Arthur glanced at Eames who, for the first time since he'd ever known the man, seemed to have lost his words. _(His worlds, his lives, the ones he had been so very careful to keep firmly separated, past and present, are here, in front of him and they are one and the same and he can't quite reconcile that in his mind. In his mind, his daughter does not belong anywhere near this house, with these children and with healing-but-still-broken Cobb. Does not belong with the memories of Mal welcoming them through the door, of the funeral where he'd hardly been able to keep himself together. This is a dream, he's sure of it, but his totem tells him otherwise)_

"Where's your partner?" Arthur asked.

"Not here."

"He doesn't know, does he?" About the fact that the man the governments knew about, the man who they chased across continents, was her father.

"I told him I was following a hunch."

"And a hunch leads you halfway around the world?"

"It worked out in my favor, didn't it?" She pushed herself off the doorframe and stepped down, her movements too casual. She stopped in front of Arthur, unrelenting and subtly fierce. "And you're stalling."

"I would never do anything of the sort."

Amara snorted, sudden and un-ladylike. "I bet you say that to all the agents." Her eyes went flint-sharp and her mouth serious. "Do we have a deal?"


	35. Chapter 35

* * *

_For any particular thing, ask, What is it in itself? What is its nature?  
-Marcus Aurelius (Meditations)_

* * *

**Arthur has a Christmas Eve ritual.**

It was both difficult to find Arthur in the crowd and it wasn't. Arthur was remarkable in that he could be surprisingly unremarkable with other people around. But he was sitting in the very last row, snowflakes melting in his hair.

Arthur stared as Eames slipped in to sit beside him. "Eames?" he asked, voice hardly a whisper. "What're you doing here?"

Eames leaned closer so as not to have to raise his voice any more than he needed to. "I got curious."

_(He half expects Arthur to close off, to get defensive. He's surprised when he doesn't)_

"So you followed me." Eames hummed an affirmative. "…Stalker."

Eames bit down on the violent urge to laugh. "Remember that you love me for it, darling."

"Debatable."

Eames shot him a look that Arthur didn't quite ignore as he turned his attention back to the sermon. The pastor was lively, energy vibrant in the sanctuary. The Lent candles were lit and there was a Christmas tree in the corner, decorated in silver and gold.

It had been a long time since Eames had been in a church, even longer since he'd been in one as Eames. _(For Marc Waters is a priest with a stutter who wears thick glasses, but who enjoys his work and when Eames had shown Arthur the alias the first time, Arthur had agreed to help him learn the different days of the Christian calendar)_ He couldn't ever remember being in one on December the 24th.

The congregation was rising, but he and Arthur didn't stand. Eames had never known all the words to _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ anyway. He didn't know if Arthur did, but he knew the tune well enough to hum a few bars every now and again.

Eames leaned close again to ask against Arthur's ear, "Why are you here?"

He didn't quite expect an answer. Arthur was strange like that sometimes. But Arthur turned to reply, "…Habit, mostly."

_(Eames remembers two silver crosses in a drawer and he can picture the Reynolds family in a church on Christmas Eve, can picture one of the twins wrapping an arm around Mina's shoulders to tuck her closer in an embrace)_

"And I like to hear the choir."

_(He remembers James not wanting to sleep, wanting to stay awake to see Santa Claus, so Arthur had sat with him on the couch for a while. When Eames had come back from putting Phillipa to bed, Arthur had been humming quietly to James and Eames hardly knew the song, but he knew the chorus. Something about a babe in a manger.)_

Eames made a sound of acknowledgment before leaning back into the bench to listen. He'd never been one for attending church, but he wouldn't deny that there was some strange measure of peace here, though he suspected it had more to do with the line of warmth where he and Arthur touched more than anything else.

**Arthur doesn't eat corn beef.**

They were visiting Emma in Vermont—the second time she'd seen her son in nearly seven years.

 _("I can't leave it like I did, Eames," Arthur says, staring at his sister's email. "It's not right." Not now that Mina had found Arthur and she would undoubtedly tell their mother and while Arthur is okay with letting them think he's dead too, he can't pretend that he is when they_ know _._

_"Then don't," Eames says simply._

_Arthur kisses him then, grateful for his understanding)_

Mina kissed both Arthur and Eames' cheeks as they came in, glaring a little at Eames when he called her 'sweetheart'.

Eames was the first to notice as soon as Emma brought the pan and the bowl of rice to the table. He saw the way the blood seemed to drain from Arthur's face and the way his posture stiffened back into old military. His sister was the first to comment on it.

"Hey, you okay?"

The smile was forced, but Eames was the only one that could tell the difference when it was Arthur's face and not Cameron's. "Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out for a second."

The corn beef was very good, Eames would admit. Emma was a fantastic cook, but half of his attention was on Arthur and the way he seemed to be eating almost mechanically. _(Corn beef had been the twins' favorite food. They used to fight for seconds and steal bites off each other's plates. Arthur hasn't had corn beef for nearly seven years and he's only eating it now because he can't make his mother think she has lost both sons)_ He answered Emma's questions as best he could—and there were many. More than six years' worth—and Mina was good at knowing when the conversation was heading to a sensitive topic and she managed to steer it away.

Emma had a certain fragility, Eames thought. A fragility that only concerned her sons. Or, rather, son. She was a strong woman, he had read that off her and, knowing her two living children, he could believe it. But the loss of her oldest child had rattled her and she wasn't entirely stable again. Her eyes never moved far from Arthur, as though afraid he would disappear again.

Mina did it too, but she, at least, had a way to communicate with him if he should run again. _(Eames is fairly certain that Arthur won't. Cameron may have been afraid, but Arthur is afraid of very few things and he tends not to run from his fears, but plant his feet and face them down)_

As they were leaving—not Mina, though. She tended to stay for the night after their visits—Emma embraced her son tightly before turning to Eames and she told him the same thing she'd been telling him ever since the first visit.

"You take care of him." It wasn't a question, or a suggestion or even an order. It was a statement of fact because Eames couldn't do anything less.

But he tilted a smile at her. "Yes ma'am," he drawled and she gave him an exasperated look, even with a smile tugging at her lips.

* * *

 

Eames was awoken by a violent movement from beneath his arm and the sound of retching. As he sat up, eyes adjusting to the darkness, he registered the lack of a warm body beside him and the pieces clicked together.

He crossed to the bathroom, stumbling a little as he got out of bed, the blood rushing to his head from getting up too fast. The lights weren't on in the bathroom, but Eames could make out Arthur's shape by the toilet, could see his skin—too pale—and feel the brown eyes on him. _(It's a strange feeling, being at this end. This situation is usually reversed)_ He knelt down carefully, one hand finding Arthur's shoulder so as to know his placement in the room.

"Darling?" was all he said, simple.

He felt the muscles beneath his hand shift and slide as Arthur used his other hand to rake fingers through his hair. "…I hate corn beef."

 _(He doesn't need to tell Eames that he sees Arthur James Reynolds in his dreams. He can't tell him that he doesn't know which dreams he prefers, the ones where his brother is beside him, laughing and warm and bright to the point where it_ aches _or the ones where he hears his brother's voice coming from the ruined mess that was his face. The worst part is that sometimes, there's a smile in that voice. "Cameron? You won't leave me here, will you? Twins, remember?" And Arthur remembers what it feels like to burn alive...)_

Eames shifted so he was sitting cross-legged and tugged Arthur closer. He expected some rebellion; Arthur had never liked accepting help. But the fight was all gone from the point man tonight and Eames couldn't blame him.

"I might throw up on you," Arthur muttered at him. Perhaps not all the fight was gone; there was some vindictiveness in the tone, distant and hardly-there.

"Do you even have anything left in your stomach?" He knew that Arthur hadn't managed to eat very much of the corn beef.

A shrug. "Prob'ly not."

Eames pulled him the little bit of distance between them until Arthur was pressed against his chest. He kissed Arthur's hairline and murmured, "…It's alright to miss him, you know."

A small tension—automatic because Arthur would never get used to the idea of someone knowing his secrets—but no reply. Arthur had thought that he'd moved past it—he hadn't healed really, but he'd moved on—but seeing his mother and his sister together in that house with the smell of the corn beef _(He remembers racing home on days when they were having it for dinner, laughing when his brother stumbled and taking shortcuts between the houses)_ and that old framed quote hanging in the kitchen. All of that had made the memories surge to the forefront of his mind.

He didn't need Eames to tell him that. He knew that he was perfectly justified in missing and still grieving the brother he'd lost nearly seven years ago. But he also knew that if he allowed himself to keep grieving and missing him, that he'd catch himself in the same whirlwind that had been there after the explosion. He'd lose his focus, become too entranced by the dreams again _(Like Dom…)_

He refused to allow it to happen again.

**Arthur doesn't believe in raising his expectations.**

It wasn't the first morning that Eames woke up to the scent of Arthur on the sheets and the pillows—but not Arthur himself. Rarely did Eames wake before Arthur was gone. It was a dreary, foggy morning. He stretched sated muscles and limbs, feeling wonderfully lethargic and a little sore.

The hotel room was small, but, Eames thought as he swung his legs from the bed, it was still bigger than the veritable broom closets they'd had to stay in before. The notepad on the bedside table bearing the hotel logo and the plain pen uncapped caught his attention and when he neared, he could read, in Arthur's smooth, if a bit hurried as though he feared he wouldn't get his thoughts on the paper in time, handwriting.

_How long will you stay with me? Should I prepare coffee or prepare my life?_

Eames recognized the quote, dimly, and he thought that only Arthur would think to use it.

Pulling out his phone, Eames carefully texted his reply.

**Arthur doesn't underestimate people.**

_"Do we have a deal?"_

Eames wondered, in some dim and distant part of his mind, what kind of power his daughter had that she'd managed to leave Arthur only one way out. And she knew it. Very few people could back the point man into a corner and those people were his sister and his mother. Even Mal had only been able to do it once or twice.

_(It should be a sign, then, what that means for them. That Amara is a strange extension of family, just like Sheral is because Eames has very few doubts that Arthur wouldn't fight to protect her if needs be)_

He saw Arthur glance at him, but it didn't register, didn't do a thing to a mind still trying to wrap around the fact that his daughter—an Interpol agent, one of the best damn ones he'd ever seen—was here, at Cobb's house _(And oh, Cobb is likely seething inside, keeping an eye on his children)_ and he couldn't tell if she was here as the agent or as his daughter. Or perhaps as something else altogether.

"Not here," Arthur said. "Come for a walk?"

Amara nodded and her shoulders slouched just a little, enough to seem relaxed _(Can't be trusted, the part of his mind that knows her as the agent says. She has excellent command of her body, of her expressions and the messages she sends out. It makes him think that some things are truly genetic because he hadn't been around to teach her)_

Arthur, who knew the area better than either of them did because he spent more time here, particularly after Mal's death _(Eames remembers, vaguely, a drunken call and he can always picture Arthur in the Cobb's house afterwards, there with two children who don't understand what's happened yet)_ led them out past suburbia into the warmth of the sun-stained streets and to a small sandwich shop.

They took a table very much in the back and Arthur sat so his back faced the wall and he could see the entire restaurant. An old habit, Eames' mind registered, filing away the details of his posture, one that hadn't gone away in more than ten years. Amara's eyes darted throughout the restaurant, looking for any kind of trick Arthur might be pulling _(His mind is a bit calmer now, calm enough that he can find some humor in the fact that these two are perhaps the most paranoid people he's ever met)_

Amara wasn't quite ignoring him, Eames noticed. Her attention would flicker back and forth, even though Arthur held the majority of it and even though her eyes never moved. It was an interesting trick. "And my answer?"

"You do have a deal, but you haven't asked anything beyond that."

"Explain to me how the PASIV works."

"None of your government contacts could dig that up for you?"

"They could," Amara said. "But you use it differently than they do. I've heard about layers of dreaming. It's what the Cobbs were innovators of."

She was only half right. Mal had been the original innovator of it, her and her father. Dom had come in later. But Arthur didn't correct her. Even the government had very little knowledge of how far Miles had gotten in his research before he'd given up the dreams.

"What's your question?"

"The way I understand it, the way it's been explained to me, is that multiple dream levels are unstable."

"They are."

"How do you work around that?"

"A sedative."

Eames saw her filing away notes in her mind, even as she toyed with a straw she had plucked from the container on the table. "How strong?"

"Depends on the layers of dreaming."

"On average, how many layers do you use?"

"Personally or in general?" Eames knew that Arthur would lie to her if she was asking about their personal average. They'd gotten good at going in a little too deep, just enough to still taste the edge of limbo as they died.

"In general."

"Two."

Her nose wrinkled a little in surprise. "Only two?"

"You're underestimating how much can get done in one dream."

She tapped the straw against her chin. "The possibilities are endless, I suppose. Limited only by the imagination."

"And skill," Arthur added. "You can have all the imagination in the world, but if you can't control it when you're down there, it's useless."

Amara hummed in interest. "What kind of sedative? Does it matter?"

"That's a question for a chemist."

"And you're just a lawyer, that's right. My apologies." Her voice sounded like a shark's smile. "But how does a lawyer know so much about dreams?"

"A hobby," Arthur said easily.

"Strange kind of hobby."

"Well, my clients sometimes need it in their defense."

"I'm sure they do. Do you go into dreams?"

"I have before."

"Then can you explain to me about militarized projections?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed at her, even as he felt Eames' attention sharpening in his daughter's direction, protective instincts rearing their heads. "And why would you need to know about something like that?"

An easy smile curled her lips. "It sounded like something I should know about. Our agents could possibly be going into dreams out in the field. I like to be ahead of the game."

"They're going to _what_?"

Arthur glanced at Eames and Amara stopped toying with the straw. "Glad you could join us." She didn't use a title on purpose. Even she wasn't entirely certain what she wanted to accomplish on this trip.

"You're going into dreams?"

"I could be. It's not up to me."

"But you wouldn't say no." The daughter Eames remembered had been unfailingly curious and too smart for her own good. He doubted very much that the first had changed since he had proof that the latter hadn't.

_("He thinks he's protecting you…")_

"I don't know what I'd say. But I do know one thing—that decision is entirely up to me."

"It's dangerous."

"I can handle myself."

_(She can't. He knows she can't because she can't possibly know about the dangers of dreamwork. It's not just the dreams. It's the lack of them, the constant walking of the line between sanity and madness, between reality and the dream-world. She can't know that people in this line of work are capable of being so much more vicious, of subtler cruelties than simply guns, although there are more than enough of those. She can't be a part of this, he can't let her)_

"Not against dreamwork."

Her eyes flashed—lightning across a stormy sky—and Arthur could have told him that the absolute worst thing to say would have been to tell her 'no'. _(It's something completely unplanned and Eames had always been so very good at breaking people's masks. No longer is she the Interpol agent. Now she is simply his daughter, his daughter who is a grown woman and he can't quite finish wrapping his head around that either)_

"What makes you think that you get any say in this at all?" she asked. "It's my decision."

"You don't know what you'd be doing." Changing people and not always for the better. Because that was what dreams did. It didn't always have to be as dramatic as inception, but going into people's minds, learning their secrets—it always left a mark.

"Doesn't matter. I'm an independent woman who doesn't need your input."

 _(She has never gotten the chance to learn that, when backed into a corner, Eames can have a sharper tongue than Arthur and with his knowledge of people, of how they think and why, he knows precisely where to jab the words to make it hurt)_ "Then why are you here?"

Amara froze. It was for little more than a split second before her composure was back, all clinical and cold agent. "To get information, Mr. Eames.

Arthur cut in because he knew that if this kept going, it wouldn't end well for either side. "Then ask your questions, Ms. Evans." _(He knows that her official name is Reed, but the name she prefers is her mother's. And he can tell, somehow, that she is not Amara Reed in something of the same way that Eames is no longer Allen)_

"What is it that you two do?" And she was not quite the agent anymore because she wasn't playing the game of not knowing who Arthur was, of the man across from her being her father. "In the dreams."

Arthur looked her up and down, calculating. It was hot in California and she was dressed accordingly. No sundress, but a flowing shirt with almost see-through sleeves, patterned with—and how had Arthur not noticed this before?—paisley in blues and greens and whites with copper detailing along the collar. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, some loose curls hanging around her face. Capris and sandals, not strappy, but with a cloth dragonfly above the toes. She had her badge in her pocket and she hadn't brought a purse.

"Are you wearing a wire?" Arthur asked.

Amara looked almost insulted. "No." And perhaps that was more telling of why she'd come than anything else.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames hasn't been able to fool Arthur with a forge since the beginning.

_What we find in a soulmate is not something wild to tame but something wild to run with.  
~Robert Brault_

* * *

**Eames is willing to do anything for his daughter.**

Paranoia doesn't allow them to stay in California. That and self-preservation. An angry and protective Cobb is not a pretty sight.

They catch the first flight out, half-expecting Interpol to come down on them as they did. It isn't until they're in Shanghai, in an old safe house that they rare use anymore—all the better. No recent tracks for Interpol to find—that Eames stops constantly glancing over his shoulder _(He told himself that he was being safe. He knew the truth. He was looking for his daughter, who would forever be his little girl, regardless of how old or independent she became)_

Arthur doesn't, but he isn't the one being chased by ghosts. Not this time. His pistol is never far from his hand and he won't sleep tonight, he knows this. He pulls a chair across the room and positions it so he can see both out the window and the front door. It's an uncomfortable chair, but all the better. It only makes it harder for him to sleep.

He hears it when Eames falls to sit on the threadbare sofa. "…I can't let her do it."

Arthur shifts his attention partially to Eames, but doesn't move his eyes from their points at the window and the door. "Amara?"

"Yes. I can't let her go into dreamwork." _(Elsewise what had this all been for? He'd been keeping Amara and Sheral so firmly out of his life so they couldn't be touched by this life. If Amara went into dreamwork, he would have lost his wife—already lost, really, but he would have liked to try to fix what they had—and his beautiful little girl for nothing…)_

Arthur isn't entirely sure that it would be a bad thing; Amara is talented and determined. Whether it's with her father's approval or not, she would do it if she wanted to. Better that she learn from them or from people they trust rather than anyone that the government manages to track down. No dreamworker worth their salt is going to willingly give away their trade to the organizations of the world that are trying to find out enough about it to make it illegal in truth rather than simply in theory.

"She'll get hurt or killed or worse."

"Perhaps," Arthur admits. But he has also seen something stronger in Amara, something that is not in Eames. He doesn't have a name for it—it's something like unwavering conviction and morals touched with idealism shadowed by reality, with a taste of steel and gunmetal—but he knows it's a good strength. "…Have you considered that you're underestimating her?"

He feels the shocked, and perhaps a little betrayed, expression bore into the side of his face.

"Think about it, Eames. How do you know she can't do it?"

_(It's a jab at a line, not quite a hit, but close enough that Eames bristled. He didn't know his daughter, but neither did Arthur so neither of them had any high ground to stand on)_

"How do you know she can?" Eames retorts. "Ariadne got lucky that she's come out of this as well as she has. I can't have the chance that what happened to Mal will happen to Amara."

"And how exactly do you plan to stop her?" Arthur let his eyes leave from the room's entry points to focus on Eames. "Lock her up? Because good luck with that." Arthur doesn't know what it is with their perchance to have such strong women in their lives—perhaps it's them. Perhaps they're the common factor—but he knows that Amara has grown up under a single mother who is enthralling and steady enough to have grounded Eames and that is no mean feat. She also seems to have inherited Eames' stubbornness, his curiosity and all that comes with them.

_(Eames didn't know how to deal with this fear. This terror clutching at his heart at the very thought of Amara with the minute round scars in the bend of her elbow, in her wrist. At the thought of her falling—and never stopping because that's what Mal did. She fell until she thought she could fly and she came crashing down to splatter on a sidewalk)_

He needs to move. It's the old restlessness itching at him again, a terrible itch and it overrides all paranoia or thoughts of lying low. Eames grabs his coat and is on his feet. "I need air."

He sees the thoughts flash across Arthur's eyes. Sees the thought of stopping him, of trying to keep him here _(But Arthur tries not to be a hypocrite)_ so he just says, "Be careful."

* * *

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard her sleepy "Hullo?"

"Darling." The thought of Sheral half-stretched across the bed, phone to her ear and cheek propped on her hand to stay awake was a comforting one. She's safe, she's solid and stable. As dependable in her own way as Arthur.

"Allen—do you know what time it is? I have work in the morning."

 _(He remembers her telling him much the same thing when they were teenagers. When he used to sneak to her window and grin and say, "C'mon, darling. Live a little." She'd thrown a shoe at him once because she had a test the next morning and wouldn't he just_ go away _, she'd see him tomorrow?)_

"Ah, sorry. Time difference."

He heard the shifting of bed sheets and he could picture her sitting cross-legged, drawing the comforter over her shoulders. "What is it? Everything okay?"

He hesitated before saying, "I spoke to her."

"She found you?" Sheral asked, sounding relieved.

"She's good," Eames said wryly. "Better than I thought she'd be."

"Is she alright?"

"Yes, I promise." Eames took a seat on a bench, cradling the phone against his ear as he fished out a cigarette from his pocket. "She was in California last I saw her."

"California?" she repeated. "Why were you there?"

Eames shielded the lighter flame from the wind with his free hand, cigarette wobbling between his lips as he lit it. "Seeing a friend and then she found me there. She's fine. All in one piece."

"Thank God."

"Was there a reason to worry?"

"Not really, but—it never goes really. It's like I worry about you. I know you're probably okay, but I can't help it." She paused and he could hear her eyes narrow. "You're very quiet. What's wrong?"

"Trying to decide something." _(His secrets and her safety for his daughter's safety and his own peace of mind?)_

"You woke me up for that?"

Eames huffed a laugh, the tension around his heart easing a little. "Well, I also wanted to hear your wonderful voice, but seeing as how you sound all sleepy and cranky…"

Her laughter rang down the earpiece, the sound warm. "Fine, fine. What is this decision?"

Sheral liked to make pro/con lists. It was how she cleared all distractions from her mind. She liked to deal with facts. Eames remembered sitting at the counter of the shop he worked at and debating on the three possible apartments they could afford. He remembered her stealing a sheet of paper from him and neatly dividing the paper and, with dark circles, indicating each point on either pro or con.

"I've already made my list, Sheral," he told her. She'd gotten him into the habit.

"Oh? So what's the decision then?"

"That partially depends on you."

"Why?"

"Because it involves your safety. It's sort of…Pandora's box."

"Interesting analogy."

"I need to know if you want to know what I've been doing since I left the military." He knew that she knew about the forgeries, of physical forgeries. Aliases and paintings and documents. But not of Forging. He had never shared anything of the dream world with her.

A short, stunned silence and then, "…What's happened?"

"What?"

"Something had to happen for you to want to tell me this. What's going on?"

"It's a long story. I need to know if you want to know. It—It could put you in danger, Sheral. It's unlikely, but it's possible." And it was only unlikely because Arthur had buried her information deep. As deep as he'd buried the information about his own family.

"Why do you think I need to know? Does it involve Amara?"

"Yes." Eames leaned forward, rubbing the back of his neck. He wanted her to say no, to not have to tell her. To know she would stay where she was, entirely off the radar and safe.

But he knew that as soon as he mentioned their daughter's name that she wouldn't. "Tell me everything."

_(And he wants to. Wants to describe the dreams, wants to express the freedom in them. Wants to tell her about being trapped in limbo with their little girl's smiling face and bloodied dress with the near mirror image of his lover holding the knife. He wants her to meet Arthur properly, without any lies or aliases. He wants to tell her about Mal, about how wonderful she had been. He thinks that Sheral would have liked her, would have liked her elegance and her ferocity)_

But he remembered where they were and how very exposed he was and he said, "Not everything. I'll visit and tell you everything."

"Then tell me what I need to know." There was a hint of steel there, the steel that let Eames know that he wouldn't be able to get out of telling her.

So Eames settled into the bench and he did.

**Eames is a hard man to surprise. Somehow, Arthur manages.**

Nearly three years. That's how long they've known each other. And in that total of time, this was their first Christmas. And it was only their first Christmas because money was in short supply—paying off debts and buying more somancin. Dreamwork wasn't cheap—and sharing a tiny flat in Paris. After they'd managed to get there. It was a strange thing, the two of them. A year and a half of working their way through the States and now they were doing much the same. But the European market was different and Eames had a few contacts out here.

_(It's not preferable. Arthur's French is rusty at best and the best quality that less than a year of high school learning it can give someone . But he manages. Eames is worse off than he is, knowing nothing but lascivious phrases and flirty one-liners. But they're set to meet that dreamwork woman in January, the woman who says she's going to revolutionize the field. Arthur's Googled her; Mallorie Rousseau, recently twenty-five years old, Bachelor's degree in Architectural Design, father was a professor, mother a retired accountant. But Google doesn't find everything and Arthur manages to dig up information on her father, who was one of the pioneers of dream-technology)_

Eames had fallen asleep on the couch. He only had himself to blame, being out gambling most of the night before. Arthur could have told him it was a stupid idea; they both had limited amounts of money and were still stuck in a foreign country, but there was no point in trying to make Eames listen to sense.

Eames woke groggily to the sight of Arthur plugging in a tiny little Christmas tree that looked a little crushed on one side, though Arthur was doing his best to fix that. "Darling, what—?"

Arthur looked over. "It's Christmas."

"Right…" Perhaps it was simply too early for Eames to be thinking straight.

"Ergo, we need a tree."

Eames blinked at him. He hadn't thought that Arthur would be so adamant on a holiday tradition—the forger certainly didn't have any worth remembering or repeating—but then, Eames didn't know anything about where Arthur came from. A United States Marine without a last name, discharged from duty due to his injuries. That was about all that records would say about him. Well, that and that he was wanted for stealing military property, but Eames had been there for that.

"Christmas is in three days."

"So it is."

"Don't Americans buy their trees well in advance?"

Arthur nodded, still fussing with the crushed side. "Right after Thanksgiving usually."

"…I've never known you to be so late to something."

A sideways look from beneath some curls that had fallen forward. "Perhaps you've been rubbing off on me, Mr. Eames."

"Perhaps I have."

**Eames is not a cat person.**

A yowl and a curse had Arthur raising an eyebrow as he stepped into Yusuf's shop. "Difficulties?" he asked as the chemist shooed a few cats out of the back room while juggling glass vials, luckily all empty.

"This is last time— _last time_ I let Eames house-sit."

"He's not so terrible a house guest," Arthur said, moving to carefully take some of the vials. It had been at least a year since he'd had Eames in his apartment, in his life, really _(They're broken, with their lines jumbled from crossing them and their minds far too raw and open for each other for either to be comfortable with it)_ but he knew that Eames couldn't have changed that much.

"Oh no, he's fine as a house guest. It's more that he and the cats—they don't get along."

"No?"

"Not at all. They've clawed up the furniture and I warned him against trying to give them baths, but." He shrugged. "Now Eames is all scratched and I need new curtains. Again."

"How long were you gone for this time?" Arthur knew that while Yusuf didn't like going into the field, he travelled around the world to sell his chemicals to their underground markets. Yusuf wasn't one to believe in middlemen. 'Too dangerous in a line of work as specific as dreamwork' he said.

"Eight days. I was over in Honduras."

"Is there an emerging market for somancin there?" Arthur simply held the bottles while Yusuf picked them out to put them where he wanted them.

"Not yet. There's potential though. There're a few chemists there that like some of my mixtures, so they'll pay well for them."

"I see."

Yusuf waved his hand a little airily. "Details. I don't need to be bothering you with these sorts of things. What brings you to town?"

"Details are what I do," Arthur reminded him. "And I came to restock. I've got a potentially big job coming up."

"Who for?"

"Cobol." Arms now empty of bottles, Arthur took a seat in one of the chairs across from Yusuf's desk.

"They are fond of you, aren't they? Do you know who the mark is?"

"Not yet. I'm pretty sure it's another energy corporation though."

"There're only so many that warrant your kind of attention." Yusuf sat in his chair, running a hand through his unruly curls. "Fischer, some of the Asian market…"

"The Asian market most likely," Arthur said, the hand in his pocket fiddling with his die. It was almost a habit by now. "They're a problem for Cobol."

"So do you need my special compounds?"

Arthur shook his head. "Not for this. Should be an easy job."

"Hopefully. You never know."

_(Yusuf doesn't know how right he is. Dom's mind has been rather unstable lately. Dom doesn't think that Arthur knows, but he does. He's seen Mal drifting through from Dom's mind and it concerns him. Arthur James Reynolds had never gotten that bad and he doesn't have to wonder what kind of damage that kind of projection can do)_

**Eames hasn't been able to fool Arthur with a forge since the beginning.**

They don't work together at the beginning. Military dreamworkers work on a schedule and they aren't scheduled together for a month. Arthur had caught Eames' interest since the shared smoke in the weight room, the Advil after the hangover and Eames is curious as to how his dreams will play out.

He is rather disappointed by how _ordinary_ it is. Clean lines, big city, clearly modeled after New York City. Everything neat, orderly, exactly what one would expect of a military man.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks, standing at the top of a front stoop. He seems utterly confident here, a king of his own castle.

Eames bet himself that he could take that king down a few notches. "Nothing." He lets the word linger, lets the thought of 'nothing special' hang until Arthur catches it. "Are you a New Yorker?"

Arthur smirks a little; he's heard of Eames' ability in dreams, to turn into other people, but he's never seen it. He can guess, though, the things involved in doing something like that. "You read people; why don't you tell me?"

And damn him, Eames thinks, because there is nothing about his demeanor to speak of a place, no accent or wording to place a region. He almost wants to be stereotypical and say that Arthur is too polite to have ever been a New Yorker, but he knows that that doesn't work.

So he chooses to walk away and says over his shoulder, "I'll tell you in a bit."

He loops around a building and lets Eames fall away. He takes pieces of the projections on the street—always safer. If they're in a person's mind, then that person clearly feels safe with those qualities. A nose here, an arch of the cheek there. A walk, a curl of the hair, a curve of the waist, a bend of the ankle, a shoe, a style of shirt, a smell. He is no longer Eames. He does not know who he is yet. He walks past a bookstore—he believes very easily that Arthur is a reader—and sees _The Great Gatsby_. Well, the kid had excellent taste at least. He thinks of Nick Carraway and decides that he shall call this persona Nicole.

Nicole strides up to Arthur, all confidence and smooth curves. She catches the automatic once-over, sees the approval in his eyes, even if it lacks active interest. She leans against the bannister, balancing easily in her heels.

"You look like a man who could use a little entertainment." Nicole has a voice, unaccented save for the occasional drag of a vowel, a throwback to the South, that is not quite high-pitched.

"I'm fine, thank you." Arthur is ever the gentleman, taking a few steps back so there is room for her on the top step and keeping a polite distance between them.

She is suddenly too close and he can feel her breath on his cheek. "You're a bad liar, Arthur," she says and tugs him down for a kiss.

The kiss lasts all of three seconds before she's being shoved away roughly.

" _Eames,_ do you _enjoy_ screwing with people?" In their few months of acquaintance, it's the loudest he's ever heard Arthur speak.

_(The answer, as it doesn't take Arthur long to find out, is a huge, resounding yes. But what he doesn't know, not for a while, is that Eames take a particular pleasure in messing with Arthur if only to see how far he can push him)_

Nicole vanishes in a blink, though Eames is still smirking. "Didn't you like her, Arthur?"

His answer is a precise bullet between the eyes.


	37. Chapter 37

 

* * *

_"I will call them my people,  
_ _Which were not my people;  
_ _and her beloved,  
_ _which was not beloved."_

_-Romans 9:25_

* * *

**Arthur's taste in music is varied.**

Eames had to balance the box of groceries (and books, but that hadn't been what he went out to get) as he turned the knob. He hadn't locked the door before he left, though he hadn't been sure that Arthur, in all his paranoia, wouldn't have locked it behind him.

The apartment was in a strange place between silent and noisy. He gently kicked the door shut behind him and found Arthur standing in the living room, folding laundry. It was a rule they'd finally managed to compromise on. Eames did the cooking and the groceries, Arthur washed, dried and folded the clothes.

The source of the little bit of noise in the apartment was Arthur singing to himself. "If these sheets were the states, and you were miles away, I'd fold them end over end to bring you closer to me. Because I don't sleep at all without you pressed up against me…"

Eames didn't know the song, but he knew that Arthur's repertoire of music was vast in a very different way. Either way, Eames leaned against the back of the sofa, smirking. "I had no idea you thought about me that way, darling."

Arthur tossed a glare over his shoulder; he'd likely heard Eames closing the door. The man's hearing was impeccable. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Eames."

"But I'm shocked—you don't have to serenade me to get my attention."

"You assume I do it for you."

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you having some affair with the bedclothes that I'm not aware of?"

Arthur's lips curled in a smirk to match Eames'. "I can't help that they're prettier than you."

Eames set the box down beside the couch before letting himself fall into the cushions. "Low blow."

Arthur finished folding a shirt before he turned back to Eames and said, "And for the record, it was not serenading."

"Then what, pray tell, was it?"

"It was me with a song stuck in my head. Mina apparently downloaded the entire CD or something and she thought I would like it, so she emailed it to me."

_(He's fairly certain that Cameron would have liked the CD. Or if not the CD, then the band. He only knows that it is not quite to Arthur's taste. But there is enough of Cameron left in him for the songs to get stuck in his head)_

**Arthur has a box of letters.**

Eames found it by accident, really. Or rather, it had found him. He'd been getting something—it was hard to remember what it was now—down from the shelf in the closet and it had plummeted towards his head. He'd jerked backwards and managed to catch it, but not without losing his balance a little and stumbling back against the wall.

The shoebox was dusty and faded and when he opened it, it smelled like stale sunlight and sand.

There were letters there. Folded neatly into thirds. He glanced back at the bed where Arthur had dozed off with a copy of The Hobbit. He hadn't woken at the sound—not surprising. This was his first day off in weeks and he'd hardly slept on that last job.

Eames flipped open one of the letters. The handwriting was smooth, with a feminine curl on the ends of the y's and the g's.

 _Arty and Cameron,_ the letter began and Eames' heart seized at the date written neatly beside it. November 29, 2002. A little under two years before Arthur James Reynolds' death.

_Thanksgiving was really weird without you. Pretty quiet. Some of the neighbors came over. The guys watched football. It was something out of a Lifetime movie. The turkey didn't taste right though. Didn't have the magic touch._

There was a shared joke there, a fond smile in remembrance.

_I wish you could be here for Christmas, at least. I can't imagine what to do on Christmas morning without you giving out the presents, Cameron. Don't worry, Arty, I'll keep that blanket of yours nice and warm._

_Mom misses you. She bought candles for you guys, keeps them lit in the windowsill in the kitchen. She says that you boys liked the kitchen too much to not make a beeline for it when you get back. She says it's what Grandma Reynolds did for Gramps when he was in the Navy, that it brought him home. Same principle, I suppose._

_Stay safe, guys. And merry Christmas if this reaches you in time._

_Love,_

_Mina_

Eames hadn't thought that Arthur would be quite that sentimental to keep these letters. He didn't remember Arthur having brought this box along with him when they escaped the military or any of the many times on the road. Perhaps he'd just carried the letters around with him.

There were more letters from Mina. Hers occasionally had doodles around the edges, or she had enclosed sketches of everyday life for them. The view from their favorite spot on the couch. Emma at the stove. Kids playing Frisbee.

There was one thing that was a little more chilling than the sketches, than Mina's smooth and fading handwriting on yellowed paper.

Another piece of paper, but this one was well-creased and neatly folded into eighths, as though to be kept in a pocket. The handwriting was slanted and masculine, with sharp jabs for the dots of the I's and slick slashes where the T's were crossed.

 _Mina_ , and the date was written next to it and Eames almost didn't want to keep reading. October 23, 2004.

Had Arthur James Reynolds known he would be dead the next day? That there would be an explosion and his brother burning alive beside him?

_Hope everything's okay over there. I miss trees, real trees. Take a picture for me, won't you? Of the trees changing color and everything? It seems like nothing changes out here. Lots of heat, lots of sand. Sooooo much sand._

A pause where the ink dripped.

_We should be home soon. I hear tell they're letting us ship out for home come December. We might even be able to make it for Christmas this time._

A smiley face, then a change in handwriting. A familiar handwriting. Slanted, but closer to scrawl, not as smooth as the other. A mixture of print and cursive.

_Don't worry. Arty and I don't just miss the trees; we miss you too. And mom. How're you guys doing?_

The letter was never finished. It ended there, abrupt with the curl of a question mark the only thing to round it off, like the curl of smoke after an explosion. Eames shifted positions, feeling his leg beginning to fall asleep and that movement shifted the contents of the box enough to expose a flash of color in the monochrome of the letters.

Eames fished for that flash of color and found himself staring when it was right in front of him. A photograph. A group of five men and a woman, all in various poses with each other, the glaring Iraqi sun seemingly reaching through time and space to heat up the photo. They were all in cargo pants and while the woman was in a tank top, the men were bare-chested in an attempt to circumvent the heat. One of the men looked younger than even the twins, a bit on the skinny side, his shoulders too broad to quite fit his still rather boyish face.

But what really drew his eye were the twins, one arm around each other's shoulders and half-turned into each other. It was harder to tell who was who when their hair was that short, but the sunlight highlighted the green-green eyes of Arthur James Reynolds, caught mid-laughter and Cameron was grinning at him, a joke just missed by the camera and likely forgotten by time.

He studied Cameron, with the little knowledge he had of Arthur and the little he'd seen of the younger twin. A gentler soul than his brother, but still fierce in its protectiveness. There was no scar spread on his side and a shadow of that unconscious posture was still there, but relaxed. There were two things around his neck—his dog tags and a small silver cross that Eames had never seen Arthur wear. _(Eames has never known Cameron, only a shade of him, drowned by survival and scar tissue. But seeing the little pieces, knowing the differences between Arthur and Cameron, he wonders if he had ever gotten the chance to meet Cameron, would he still have fallen for him?)_

As his eyes shifted to Arthur James Reynolds, he narrowed his eyes a little to see the flash of ink on his forearm. Phillipians 4:13. He also was wearing his cross with his dog tags. _(He has only ever seen this face in the depths of limbo and in Arthur's mind. Arthur has preserved him perfectly)_

This photo was dangerous to have. In the right hands, it gave them too much. The fact that there were twins with Arthur's face was enough to cause problems. Surely Arthur knew that. And yet, here this was. Hidden away, but still decently easy to find if someone was looking for something. The only other photograph that Eames had seen Arthur carry was the one of him and his brother paintballing, the one he kept in his pillowcase and in his inside jacket pocket. Right beside his gun.

Everyone was allowed a weakness, Eames supposed. He just kept expecting Arthur's to be harder to find.

**Eames has seen limbo more times than he has seen Arthur drunk.**

They hadn't known each other long. Hardly a year. And that was when they met each other. Actually knowing each other…that would take many more years. But of all the places Eames had expected to find Arthur, the local bar was not one of them.

Eames was grateful for the warmth inside the bar, quickly shutting the door behind him to keep the October chill out. He was a bit surprised that they hadn't at least carded the kid _(He does that sometimes. It's strange. He knows Arthur's not a kid, but, for another half a year, his mind will want to believe it)._ In the right light, Arthur could pass for fifteen. Especially since he hated facial hair.

He found Arthur fairly easily. Curled in the corner, nursing a cup of cheap scotch that was probably better for lighting fires than getting drunk.

And since when did Arthur start drinking in earnest anyway? He was always the responsible one. It was strange to have to switch roles.

"I have found my white whale," Eames declared, leaning an elbow on the counter beside Arthur.

Arthur glared balefully up at him; not so far gone as to not understand him. That was a good sign at least. "Oh, shut up, Eames."

"You're certainly grouchy today."

"Go away."

Eames slid onto the stool beside him. "No, I think I fancy a drink too."

"You can take your fancies elsewhere."

At Eames' questioning look, the bartender held up four fingers. Four cheap scotches. "You're talking far too coherently to have drunk that much."

Arthur didn't answer, just taking another swig of his drink. The hand not seemingly glued to the glass was toying with the dog tags around his neck. Eames honestly didn't understand why he'd kept them; they were dangerous in the right hands. Eames had thrown his away as soon as he got the opportunity.

After a few long stretches of silence, Eames thought he might understand. After all, he'd lost people to the military as well. Perhaps Arthur was missing someone.  
 _  
(Eames will help Arthur stumble back to his motel room. Arthur's a growly kind of drunk, but Eames isn't sure if that's something that always happens or because of whatever circumstances got him to drinking in the first place. He won't see Arthur curl into himself on the bed and he won't hear Arthur missing his brother)_

**Arthur doesn't register in Eames' mind as an intrusion.**

It isn't her first dream, or even her second. But there is a difference to these dreams that is not like the shared dreaming she's seen in her fellow agents, in some of their captured targets.

The dream is strange. It's not orderly, like the others she'd seen. But neither is it entirely sprawled. The dream is a city, cobble streets and brick buildings, a little too old to be modern, but not old enough to look ancient. Street lamps flickered gently in the soft mist as the sidewalks fell away into soft grass. Not quite green, but neither yellow. An in between color. The grass grows tall, up to her waist in some places, and it stretches long and lazy.

Trees flowered in bursts of bright, feathery reds are here and there. And beyond the seemingly endless field is a cliff where a hammock rocks, smooth and indolent, in the wind where it's tied off between two of the trees. There is a house up there as well, but it is not one she can recognize. There is a wrap-around porch with a swing and grape vines twining through the ceiling, wooden wind chimes clacking gently in the breeze. There is a pile of books on the swing, dog-eared and yellow-paged.

"Are you here to see my daddy?"

Trying to get her heart back to its normal rhythm, she turns to the speaker and her pulse races again.

The speaker is a little girl, perhaps seven years old, maybe eight, with lovely blonde curls that bounce down her back with every step and very, very familiar eyes, gray as London skies. She is wearing a dress that Amara knows because it had been her favorite dress growing up. Orange with yellow hibiscus flowers on it. Tassels dangle from the bottom hems. But the dress is wrong. There is a splotch of red, rusty and worn, on her chest _(Like old blood, her mind told her and it made the bile rise in her throat a little)_

"Miss?"

Amara is drawn back to the little girl's voice _(Her own voice, fifteen years gone)._ "What? I'm sorry?"

"Are you here to see my daddy?" the younger her repeats a little slower. She is holding a little stuffed lion that she remembers naming Jasmine because of the movie _Secondhand Lions_ , one of her favorites growing up.

Amara clears her throat. _(She still had Jasmine. The worn and ragged lion had a special place on her sofa where she curled up to watch movies in her free time. The animal that the little girl was holding was still rather new, eyes button-bright and fur fuzzy)_ "Yes. Yes, I am."

"He's not here. Dunno why. He likes this house."

Amara crouches down beside her. "Does he?"

"Mmmhm. But he don't come here as often with him here."

The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Who's 'him'?"

"She's a doll, isn't she? Absolutely adorable." Amara whirls to the new speaker and she wants her gun in her hand. It's Arthur—or 'Justin Peterson', whatever he's calling himself now—dressed in a white T-shirt, dog tags dangling with military fatigue pants and boots. His hair is buzzed short, but there is no mistaking that face. Her eyes drag down to his hands, where he's flipping a knife in between his knuckles. A knife with old blood on it. He smiles at her, dimpled and handsome and poison-sweet. "But then, you would know, wouldn't you?"

"Who are you?"

He shifts so that his forearms are resting on his thighs and he blinks Toto-we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore Technicolor green eyes. _(This isn't Arthur/'Justin Peterson', she realized then. His eyes were brown. But then who was this?)_ "I would say that I should be the one asking that, but I already know who you are."

"How?"

The smile spreads and shatters and Amara wants to wince at a sound of glass breaking that never comes. "It's all here. This city isn't the maze people like to think it is."

"People like…"

The eyes sharpen, shards of glass that penetrate into her. "Your father."

_(She was tempted. Oh, how she was tempted. If this projection was telling the truth, he could find all the secrets her father was hiding. And she was sure that there were many of them. And she almost asked this projection—and she didn't even like to call it that because there was something a little too conscious of it to be a true projection—to do it)_

Amara feels small hands clutch at her jeans and she looks down to see her younger self hiding behind her legs. "What is it?"

"He's a bad man."

She glances back up and the projection shrugs. "Kids say the darndest things."

"Amara?"

The three of them whirl and there is the projection's mirror image. Or close to it. As he nears, she can see the subtle differences. The mirror is older, faint lines tracing themselves on his face. His hair is longer and he is dressed casually, a brown leather jacket and jeans. And his eyes are brown, solid and comforting and not-strange at all.

The projection sighs. "You always were something of a party-killer, Cameron."

A gun seems to materialize in Cameron's hands and his hands are perfectly steady, jaw set. "Don't think I won't do it."

She never sees what happens. There's a blur of movement and walls are slammed up. Her younger self's fingers dig in and she wants so badly to have her gun—a Browning Hi-Power Mark III, comfortable in her hand and easy enough to conceal—and it appeared, its weight solid and familiar at the small of her back.

She grabs her younger self's hand—and yes, this tops her list of strangest things to happen to her—and she runs, not sure where or to whom, but she knows she can't stay here. She hears gunshots beyond the wall, but doesn't think to look back, despite the fact that it wouldn't be much help.

Another duck around a corner and she nearly shoots the mirror image—Cameron, the projection had called him. He holds his hands up, gun pointed at the sky and she copies him.

"Glad to know you don't have an itchy trigger finger," he says and he sounds less dreamlike than the projection does, not that she can specifically explain what that means.

"Yeah well, can't just go around shooting suspects and whatnot."

"The burdens of law enforcement."

Her younger self peers around her legs and beams when she sees him. "Hi!"

He crouches down in front of her, pushing his hair out of his face. "Hello, sweetheart." And this is surreal in so many ways. "Been a while."

"Uh-huh. Did you see daddy?"

"Not yet. Do you know where he is?"

Her nose wrinkles in a movement that Amara knows, for she's seen it in the mirror when she's putting a disguise together and it doesn't seem quite right. Or when her hair is being particularly uncooperative. "Ummm, maybe."

"Better than nothing. Can you show us?"

"Uh-huh." She lets go of Amara's hand. "Follow me!"

 


	38. Chapter 38

* * *

 

_"The friend within the man is that part of him which belongs to you and opens to you a door which never, perhaps, is opened to another. Such a friend is true, and all he says is true; and he loves you even if he hates you in other mansions of his heart."  
~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _The Wisdom of the Sands_ , translated from French by Stuart Gilbert_

* * *

**Hawaii is one of the few places Eames has never been. And neither has Arthur.**

It's in a hazy aftermath where they were lying in a hotel bed and Eames was absentmindedly tracing designs along Arthur's abdomen, his hips, sometimes dipping to his thighs and back up, that he said, "What do you think of Hawaii?"

Arthur blinked at him, half-drowsy. "Never been." It's strange, but they hadn't ever had a reason to go there. And, strangely, it had never been one of the places he'd fantasized about vacationing to. Most of those fantasies involved Europe in one way or another. "Why?"

"That's a fact, not an opinion."

"It seems very…stereotypical. And…almost exotic."

"Almost?" Eames hummed in amusement.

"When I think about it, it feels very 2-D in my head. Not quite exotic, but more like the feeling of it."

_(Arthur has tried to forge a few times. Out of curiosity's sake, for the most part. And he can do it. He knows Eames' process well enough and is detail-oriented enough to mimic people like a mirror—and neither he nor Eames thinks about why a twin is so very good at being a reflection—but he is too grounded in his sense of self to ever be able to forge someone well. Their appearance and mannerisms will show, but it all seems very flat and he can't always hold the forge because his mind panics a little, flashing his true appearance before reverting)_

"Why Hawaii?" Arthur asked.

Fingers rough from a lifetime of work and clever from a lifetime of tricks outlined the beginnings of dark circles beneath Arthur's eyes. They smoothed over the particular point that Eames knew was where Arthur's brow furrowed when he was concentrated or stressed. "Because you've been working too hard lately, darling. We both have." And they weren't twenty-three anymore, able to do job after job, never settling, without feeling the life-tiredness dragging at their shoulders. "I think a vacation would do us some good."

"…When's the next flight?"

A kiss to Arthur's collarbone, his throat. "Tomorrow morning. Nine fifteen."

Arthur glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Three thirty-seven. Less than four hours of sleep they would get tonight to be at the airport on time. And this was after a hard job, one in which Arthur had gotten, perhaps, a total of five hours of sleep in six days. "…I hate you sometimes."

The laughter rumbled out of Eames, vibrating through Arthur. "Sometimes, I feel the same way."

**Eames isn't comfortable sleeping in cars.**

For months after they first run away, Eames hotwires cars like it's second nature—and he doesn't pretend that it's anything otherwise—and Arthur can't drive for long amounts of time, the wound on his side aching if he stays in one position too long. So they'll stop in alleyways and little-used roads and Arthur stretches a little, wincing as the scar tissue is tugged at, before taking a nap in the back seat.

_(Eames drove once, out in North Carolina. He nearly drove them off a mountain because of a spasm in his bad leg and Arthur swore like a soldier—in a mix of English, French and Farsi—as he hung onto the side of the door. He didn't let Eames drive again after that and Eames never told him that his bad leg gave him problems, that he'd never really learned to drive properly)_

Eames stays awake then, on watch for anything resembling a government agent and to keep concerned passerbys away, assuring them that yes, they were alright.

Arthur asks, once, on a drive from Louisiana to Ohio, why Eames doesn't sleep in the car.

_(He could still remember the day he got the phone call. He was at the casino, not too early and Charlie said he'd be here soon and he'd been sitting outside, enjoying a cigarette when it came in._

_Charles Anderson has been killed in a car accident, the person on the other line said._

_The world still swam sometimes when he thought about the message. When they'd told him where, he'd caught a taxi out, told him to step on it. Had left the cigarette burning on the sidewalk._

_He still remembered Charlie's car, the old beat up thing that he was so proud to get, half-demolished. The grass was cracked. There was blood on the steering wheel, the dashboard. There were those stupid dice he hung in the mirror, the little bobblehead Labrador Retriever thrown to the ground in the turmoil._

_He never wanted to remember Charlie's body. The blood dripping from his hairline and nose, those familiar eyes empty and glazed. He'd been suited up all nice for his twenty-first birthday in his dress uniform, hair combed and neat and he'd nicked himself with the razor closer to his ear and then it hit him and Allen was throwing up in the bushes because his best friend is_ dead _because of some stupid teenagers on their phones…)_

"Call it a bad habit," Eames tells Arthur. In truth, he doesn't trust people driving him around. He can't sleep, remembering Charlie's accident, remembering Charlie in the car beside him, laughing even as he cursed at his terrible junk car. The memories hurt.

In time, he finds himself trusting Arthur's driving. Arthur, who's careful not to go over the speed limit more than five miles an hour-unless of course they're out on empty Midwest roads and then, and only then, will Arthur speed. Arthur who always uses his signals and has too much self-preservation to drive badly. So he relearns to sleep with his cheek cradled by the seat belt and a lot of Elvis and AC/DC playing low on the radio.

**Eames likes to hack Arthur's phone.**

Arthur wasn't one of those people that had twenty million locks on their phone. He barely had one. But then again, he also didn't keep very much on his phone. He kept his contacts—most of which used aliases anyways—and he'd memorized his sister's number that he rarely used. He used the phone for its intended purposes, talking and texting. And, if needs be, for the camera, but he was always careful to destroy any traces of the photos after he was done.

So when he's in a meeting and his phone suddenly blared _And I-I-I would walk five hun-dred miles, Aaand I-I-I would walk five hun-dred more_ , he was understandably surprised. He didn't even put ringtones on his phone.

He apologized to the others and checked the number—Eames', naturally—and the contact photo that sure as hell wasn't him. It's a picture of a sign stating Austin, Texas NOW ENTERING. _(Because sometimes, Eames actually remembers to check in. It's just not conventional)_

It didn't take him long to retaliate. Eames found himself confronting a Yusuf who couldn't catch his breath for laughter at the Spice Girls song that came from his pocket. The picture was one of Wile E. Coyote holding up a sign that read, HA.

Arthur startled awake, nearly falling out of the bed. _…and the Jay-Z song was ooon. So I put my haaands up, they're playing my song, butterflies fly away…._

"Jesus Christ… _Eames,"_ the word was a curse more than simply a name. Arthur threw the blankets off and searched for his phone, following the sound while stumbling in the dark, trying not to find furniture with his toes. _…moving my hips like yeah…put my hands up…_ "I'm going to kill him." _It's a party in the U.S.A…._

Eames was on a train from Germany to France when the call came in. _I hate Paris, oh why, oh why do I hate Paris? Because my love is there…with his_ slut _girlfriend…._

It made him burst out laughing because Arthur really did know him too well, didn't he? He opened the phone. "Hello, darling."

"Eames. How's the weather in France?"

The forger settled more comfortably against the seat, glancing outside the window. "As charming as you are. Although sometimes, you scare me a bit with the big brother act. _I_ didn't even know I was going to Paris yet."

"You like Paris. Of course you would go."

"Why the call? Besides the less-than-subtle one-upmanship."

"You're the one who left a message about a job."

"I wondered if you'd be my date for a night." Date meaning he didn't feel entirely safe doing this job without someone to watch his back. He was used to unsavory teams, but when it involved a PASIV, he wanted someone there. _(He remembers being left to dream, no one to wake him up, trapped with his never aging daughter and a mirrored ghost. He can't let it happen again)_

"You've gone and jinxed it now."

"You'd leave me alone for an event such as this? That hurts."

"I never said I wouldn't do it. I take it that you intend to paint the town?"

"Paris is much too big to be considered a town, but yes."

"Then I'm in."

Eames heard something in the background like a plane's PA. "Are you already on the next flight here?"

"Don't be ridiculous." _(It means yes)_

**Eames' mind is adaptable. Sometimes not for the better.**

"You've got explaining to do," Amara tells him because how had he known that she was here?

"Said the pot to the kettle."

They follow her younger self through the maze, which opens too easily in some places. "Are you doing that?" she asks, her legs starting to hurt. "'Cause I'm not."

Arthur's eyes flick to her, very much not green. "You don't know where you are, do you?"

"In a dream."

_(It's what he'd been afraid of and he knew now that he couldn't just let her go on her merry way. Interpol might have trained her, but they didn't have the right kind of knowledge for someone who had the kind of talent and natural skill that she did)_

There is something that he isn't telling her, she knows, but she can't stop to ask questions now. "Why keep the walls? I heard the gunshots; I assumed you hit him."

"I did," he says grimly. "Killed him. But that's no guarantee he won't come after us."

_(He should be dead. Arthur's killed him once before already. But that was the problem with dreams; things didn't always necessarily stay dead. And limbo was unpredictable and he knows that once he gets out of here, he will not be able to keep the thought of his brother, bullet holes in his body, coming after them bloodied and feral in the way only limbo does)_

And little Amara—dream-dead and rusty with a smile that only children have—leads them out and they follow her far and out and Arthur keeps extending the maze, closing it behind them with paradoxes and impossibilities.

She leads them to an ashy apartment building that is one of two buildings still standing on a crumpled street. _(Arthur knew the other building somehow. It was a storefront, with four steps leading up to it and there was a flicker of a dimple smile and the smell of cigarettes and too-large sweater)_ There is a sinkhole halfway there where the street has caved in and beyond that, Arthur can see a house that is slightly crooked and wind-worn at the end of a trail that branches to the sea. _(The sea that he'd seen broken and shattered like glass shards that reflected back the wrong face and they crackle with green lightning)_

Arthur goes in first—he's a point man, it's what he does—and he feels Amara step in after him, her footfalls light. "Eames?" he calls through the apartment.

It's small and stale and the wallpaper is peeling. The farther Arthur goes inside, the stronger the smell of alcohol is.

"Eames, if you can, say something," he tries again, searching room by room.

Footsteps creak and Arthur leads with a gun because, honestly, he doesn't put anything past Eames' mind. His voice drifts around the corner. "Arthur?"

"Dad?"

The temperature drops several degrees below zero and Eames steps out, staring at Amara like he's praying he's wrong. His eyes flicker back and forth between the three of them—Amara, Arthur and the little projection that doesn't ever really go away.

_(He didn't look like Eames. Not completely. His eyes are there, as are the crinkles that have begun forming at the corners. But there was very little else that was the same. His hands were too small, fingers too slender, nose too crooked and teeth too straight. His shoulders were a little too round and his tattoos weren't all there. His skin fades from milky to chocolate in strange places. He looked cobbled together, like Frankenstein's monster and Arthur knew that there were too many forges in his mind, too many to keep track of with a jolt like this)_

"Amara?"

She frowns as she studies him. She does not know him well enough to pick out the details that Arthur knows. She has not seen the other forges, has never seen her father in action. But she knows his voice and she knows his eyes because they are hers in the mirror.

She looks back at Arthur. "What's wrong with him?"

Not-Eames' face folds in strange places as he frowns, old and young faces morphing together. He glances at Arthur and sees the pointed look before following his eyes down his body. "I-I can't keep them straight. Everything's fuzzy."

It's Arthur's turn to frown. "Fuzzy? Amara, what was mixed with the somancin that you used today?"

"A light sedative." She says it like it's obvious.

"What else?"

"Nothing else."

"That you know of."

Eames stares at her. "You're really here?"

_(She hadn't known how terrible a world could break until just now. Arthur—for that was what her father called him and she believed him over a projection—didn't seem surprised and she was ninety percent sure that this wasn't the first time her father had been this confused)_

"Yeah, I'm really here."

He studies her and the world flashes like strobe lights and flash photography. "Who came with you?"

"My partner."

Arthur swears under his breath and it echoes louder. Eames flinches a bit at the sound _(Because when Arthur echoed, it made his brother and his brother killed his daughter who was standing before him and the world cracked and splintered a little more)_

"There was more than a light sedative in that mix."

"I feel fine." Logically, she should feel any adverse effects if they'd put the something else in.

"You might. But they put something else in the tube that was feeding him," Arthur nods at Eames. "And it didn't blend right with the mixture he was using."

"So where does that leave us?" Like her mother, Eames notes. Always dealing with facts.

He knows the answer to this. "Limbo."

"Excuse me?"

"They didn't teach you about that, did they?"

"No…"

"Limbo is—this." Arthur gestures out at the not-right world. "Unconstructed dreamspace. End of the line. You go down too far, die under a strong enough sedative and here you are."

 _(Her mind rang with Tommy's words—"…right there with you…" and "easy job. In and out…"—and she felt the sting because Tommy had_ lied _to her)_ "So how do we get out?"

"That's the tricky part. I would say wait for the kick, but—"

But waiting is dangerous now and she remembers too-green eyes and a handsome, splinter-sharp smile. "Who is he?"

Both of their eyes are as sharp as the projection's smile and the very idea makes her afraid. And they look at each other and have a conversation entirely without words, nearly without _facial expressions_ and she hadn't known people could do that.

_(She didn't know that there was an internal conflict in this for the both of them. Secrets for safety. Nightmares for truth. And it hurt to consider that they considered keeping their secrets too close and letting her pay the consequences)_

Arthur presses his lips together into a tight, thin line before saying, "…He's my brother." The words roll off easier than he had imagined they would. It's been a long time since he's said that. A very long time. But it's something that doesn't simply go away because it will forever be the truth.

"Why is he…?" She trails off as she catches the flicker of her father's eyes, catches the way they go down towards her younger self, small hands twisted in the hems of her dress. The dress with the rusty stains like old blood. _(And Arthur's brother had a knife twisting in his hands and oh, that's why and she felt a little bit ashamed and a little horrified but it was…sweet, she supposed, what her father had been trying to do. Sweet in a protective, terribly morbid, three skips from the psycho ward way)_

Arthur's voice cuts into her thoughts, sharp and slick. "Don't think about it."

"You don't even know what I was thinking," she tells him, releasing a little temper as she does.

Arthur nods at something over her shoulder and she turns and there is a sad looking building, too stark white in this world of shades and colors that is her father's mind and at first she doesn't recognize it, but she does in that way of almost remembrance. Then it clicks. It's, more or less, the psychiatric ward from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_.

"This isn't my dream," she says slowly. "I can't create things."

"Limbo changes the rules."

"There's someone here." It's not a voice Amara recognizes and by the looks of it, neither does Arthur. That's the surprising part.

When they look at the speaker, it's a young man, lanky and not quite broad. His skin is a faded brown and freckly, one Arthur has seen on a lot of soldiers. Years under harsh Middle-Eastern sun and then when they get home, it all starts to fade away. He has eyes that seem nearly black but are actually a dark gray, like factory smoke, but they're bright, unnaturally so in the dream. He's wearing a horrible sweater-Arthur shouldn't be surprised when it's in Eames' mind-that's too big for his frame and underneath he has a military dress uniform. His hair is buzzed short and, as Arthur watches, a single drop of blood follows his hairline down to the line of jaw to drip to the ground.

"Where?" Eames asks.

"Closing in." He's British in the way Eames had been more British when Arthur met him, accent strong and dripping with London. Now, Eames has American phrases and French insults and Italian pick-up lines and he's a hodpodge of people all in one. "Won't take them long." A thoughtful pause. "Well, it might take them a bit longer. He's a bit of a wildcard."

"Who is?"

The projection looks straight at Arthur. "Your brother."


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur used to know how to play guitar.

* * *

 

_So I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there.  
-Charlie **(Perks of Being a Wallflower)**_

* * *

**Arthur keeps reminders.**

Looking away from the vinyl record in his hands, Eames asked, "…You told me once that these were your father's. Why do you still keep them?"

Arthur glanced up from where he was shoving the couch out of the way so he could sweep out the dirt from underneath it. Eames saw him stiffen, saw the walls go up without thought. _(He shouldn't be asking. Not really. There is a line here, re-established after he'd leapt right over it. They have to be careful about these things, so careful that they don't even really want to touch it)_

He thought that Arthur wouldn't answer. He wouldn't even be able to blame him.

_(But he asked, Arthur thinks. It's this compromise they've been working for)_

Arthur leaned on the broom a bit. "Um…I guess it was…a reminder."

"Of?" Eames pressed gently.

"I don't know…better days?" Days when his family had been happy and whole and his mother smiled the way he had never seen her do again, whole and bright and beautiful because she had loved William Reynolds, for all that it was worth. She just loved her family more. Days when he and Arthur James would sit at the kitchen table and listen to Elvis while they did their homework. The way that their dad had sung them and Mina Elvis and Sinatra songs to sleep. They'd never heard a lullaby.

When he heard these records, when he saw them, he didn't think of the man his father had become or what he'd done. He thought of his father as he'd been, protective and playful and warm. But now, after all these years, he hardly even thought of his family when he heard the songs. He thought of the curl of Mal's lips and the sound of her laughter, of Dom in the driver's seat as Arthur fiddled with the radio. Of Phillipa and James' wide smiles. Of Eames in his apartment, in his life with his disorder and small chaos and his smokiness sinking into the sheets and the walls.

Eames didn't press more. _(He knows about better days, knows about family left at home. He remembers a different body pressed up against his in the dark, of curves instead of flat planes, of laughter in leaky first apartments and he doesn't have very much to remember those days by. But his memory is better than Arthur's anyway)_

**Arthur used to know how to play guitar.**

They're in Spain when he saw it. Saw the way Arthur's gaze went to the curved wood, the carefully taut strings, the way the makers sanded the instrument and carefully painted designs into it. He saw the old fondness in the back of his eyes.

He didn't think about it until later. Until he caught Arthur's foot tapping with some beat that was stuck in his head while taking notes on a job. _(It doesn't take much to imagine Arthur as a musician. The slender, clever fingers, a fedora angled on his head and while he wasn't much of a singer, he wasn't bad at it exactly)_

Eames found an opportunity to ask when they were having brunch at a café—and more than simply breakfast. The mark had an apartment across the street and they needed to learn his habits—and a man was playing a saxophone on a street corner, the case open at his feet with dollars and spare change tossed in.

"Did you ever learn an instrument, darling?"

Arthur glanced over at him. He had a notebook in hand, filled with rough sketches and notes. They were dressed simply today, the easier to blend in. His hair was still gelled back, but the plain button shirt and jeans softened his entire appearance.

"…Sort of. I was never any kind of prodigy—I only learned a few songs, but," The twist of his lips had a hint of old fondness to it. "I loved that guitar."

"You had a guitar?"

A hum of approval. "For my fourteenth birthday."

Eames chuckled a little at the image, skinny Cameron Reynolds plucking at the strings as a curious Mina looked on, or as Arthur James ruffled his hair while his mother smiled indulgingly. "Can you still play?"

"Oh, I doubt it. It's been," Arthur paused, doing some mental math. "Something like twelve years since I last played. Maybe more."

"I think it'd be an interesting sight to see."

"Well, what you think and what actually happens have never exactly been similar."

Eames grinned roguishly at him. "I don't know. I think it's worked out rather well in my favor."

"Flattery gets you nowhere."

"You say that, but we both know it's not true."

And Arthur didn't deny it.

**Arthur's penchant for breaking the rules is a family tradition.**

Eames brought the subject up once, more out of acknowledging the fact that he knew about the two silver crosses in the drawer than actually believing that Arthur would answer him.

"…What denomination were you?"

Arthur blinked at him from where he was fishing a book out from beneath the bed. "What?"

Eames didn't have to hold out the cross with Cameron Reynolds' initials on it. "Your denomination."

A sound of understanding. Arthur looked away, but his arm ceased its search for the book. "I was raised as a mix of Catholic and Protestant, actually."

"How?"

Arthur moved back onto his haunches, elbows resting on his knees. "...My mother's parents were…quite the scandal. Or so I'm told. She was Protestant and he was Catholic. It's apparently part of why they came here rather than stay back in Ireland. They found a place in New York away from the Irish neighborhoods and they never left."

"You didn't know them?"

"She died when I was…five. It only took a few years for him to follow. I don't remember much about them." In truth, he remembered more about his father's mother, the French war bride who waited for her Navy husband, locked away from the sea with all her paintings of lighthouses on the walls with a cellar for red red wine.

Eames hummed in interest, closing the drawer with the crosses and moving to stand in front of Arthur. "So…what you're telling me is that you're a born rule-breaker." Arthur never had seemed the type for Catholic guilt.

Arthur stood upright and uncurled a smirk as he stepped past him. "I told you it wasn't your influence."

**Arthur divides his world into two categories: his to protect and those that are in the way.**

Arthur wasn't a man who shocked easily. But Eames had known him long enough that he'd seen it happen a few times and he'd learned one thing: Arthur being shocked was never indicative of a good day.

Not that today was going all that well up to this point anyway. He'd been on a job, a normal job, nothing dangerous. But he'd let Arthur know about it because, really, it was always a safer idea. _(And after their last run-through with limbo, he never wants Arthur out of the loop again. He'd almost been too late)_ And good thing he'd done it. It had been an Interpol set-up. A clever one. _(He's willing to bet a small fortune that his daughter is one of the orchestrators of the set-up. She's familiar with criminal types, knows how they really think and not what the psychologists in the government think they think)_

And his mind was drugged on top of the somancin and his heart felt like it should be beating its way out of its chest, but it won't because of the drugs pumping through his system, keeping him sedated. But his mind wasn't working today, sluggish and dim, his whole body felt like it was moving in slow-motion and he hadn't known something was wrong until he saw Arthur and Amara standing in his childhood apartment, the little, bloody projection clutching the little stuffed lion that had been the first thing that Eames had ever put in his daughter's crib, soft and fuzzy and she'd gone everywhere with it.

And he hadn't noticed that his own _body_ was wrong until Arthur gave him that look. Was it that he'd been so many people over the years that his mind couldn't even tell the differences anymore? _(And that in itself is a_ very _troubling thought)_ Or was it the drugs that Amara's partner had slipped into his PASIV line? He prayed it was the second one.

And then Charlie Anderson showed up. And Charlie was a projection that didn't often speak. _(So different from his real-life counterpart)_ He was usually off on the sidelines, watchful and wary, but always with that really horrible sweater that Eames thought would forever be branded in his mind because of how Charlie had treasured it. Had worn the hell out of it until it was holey and threadbare and barely hanging together.

And that was when Arthur froze, shoulders going stiff and his mind going a mile-a-minute. _(It shows, in the dream. Down here in limbo. It shows in the sudden buzzing of a wasp's nest outside and the threatening creak of the floorboards, like they're about to come apart and fold themselves into whatever Arthur's unconscious mind pleases)_

"What about him?" Arthur asked.

And Charlie shrugged a little, unconcerned with the line of red going down his face. _(If Eames had been sound in his mind right now, it would make him sick. But he isn't and he thinks that that single streak of_ color _is going to brand itself into his memory)_ "Sometimes he helps, sometimes he doesn't. Always a toss-up."

"He killed him," Amara said and something made her voice tremble, just a little, towards the end and Eames felt a flash of rage dulled by the drugs somewhere and he wanted to know _exactly_ what Arthur James Reynolds had done to his real daughter. "I saw it."

Charlie looked at her and It was with an expression that Eames didn't know. "Dying doesn't mean what you think it does here. Here you wake up."

Amara glanced around. "So why don't we just kill ourselves? If we die in a dream, we wake up."

"Not now," Arthur told her. "We can't risk it with the drugs. We'd still make it out because our systems are working normally. But there's a sedative and a drug we don't know in Eames' system. We kill him here before the drug's run its course and his heart'll probably stop."

"Wonderful words of encouragement, darling." Words felt easier, not quite as thick or slow in his mouth as they had before. "Especially," There was a slur there that wasn't supposed to be and it frustrated him a little. "Since we dunno how long 'til the drug runs out."

"Tommy is looking for you. He's looking for proof of your crimes."

Arthur and Eames both leveled the same look at her, wary and calculating. "And why are you here?" Arthur was the one who asked, blunt and unashamed and Amara could kind of appreciate that.

"It's my job."

"Are you still here to do your job?"

 _(Amara thinks of the way Arthur had pointed a gun at his own brother, cold and steady. She thinks of walls slamming up in a maze and she knows that, if Arthur wants to, he can trap her here, in her father's limbo, forever. And she thinks of Tommy and a supposedly easy job and how he_ lied _to her and maybe the world isn't black and white like she's always wanted it to be)_

She knew that her expression wasn't quite a smile, but a mix of one with some grimacing tossed in. "Not sure. Probably not. I think I'd rather survive, to be honest."

And that made both of them smile a bit and Arthur just said, "Good choice."


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames has good taste in women.

* * *

 

_Sometimes, we need a few people in our lives who will calmly call our bluff.  
~Dr. SunWolf,_

* * *

**Eames has good taste in women.**

Since he took his brother's name, Arthur has not been a man to back down. It's not in him.

The sight of Sherallyn Evans waiting for him at the London train station is almost enough to make him want to.

She doesn't look threatening. She's roughly Arthur's age, perhaps a few years older, blonde curls yanked back into a messy braid. She's wearing that old leather jacket that's slightly too big for her, a comfortable T-shirt underneath. Her jeans are fading quite a bit at the knees, like a few more wears and there would be a rip there. Her sneakers are mud-spattered and Arthur's automatic neatness winces at the sight.

But something has changed in her since she saw him last _(at her door, in her house, bringing her a real check from a person who doesn't exist with a false story)_ and it is not the new couple of lines at her eyes or the stray gray hairs that he can spot. There is knowledge in her eyes.

_(Arthur didn't want to consider what she knew. Had Eames finally given in? Finally told her everything? It should have seemed absurd, but Sherallyn, for as long as Arthur had known about her, had always been something of a rule-breaker)_

Her eyes, a very dark blue like a good sapphire, are cool when he reaches her. Not angry, exactly, nor upset, but neither are they happy to see him. "Arthur."

No illusions of work partners and normal jobs then. "Sherallyn. Is everything…?"

"Walk with me?"

He does, matching her strides easily, despite his being a decent five inches taller. Two blocks down is when she decides to speak again.

"Allen told me. About what it is you two do."

"Did he?"

"Yes. Amara is dabbling in the field a bit, or so he tells me." She shoots him a look. "He says it's dangerous for her."

"It's a dangerous job in general, not just for her," Arthur tells her honestly.

"And he's letting her get in the middle of that?"

"Ea—he didn't _let_ her do anything, believe me. All these years he hasn't been home, hasn't really been there?" He knows this can count as overstepping, but this is too far gone now. "It's his version of protecting you."

"Has he made enemies?" Sherallyn asks and Arthur knows she is stronger than anyone, perhaps even Eames, gives her credit for.

"…Yes."

A wry smile came to her lips. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. He's always had a talent for pissing off the wrong people."

"That he has."

_(There was a moment of connection because while Eames and Allen have had men and women both, they have only ever had two lovers)_

Sheral takes a sharp step forward, swinging around so she's facing Arthur in a smooth movement. Arthur stops abruptly to avoid running into her. "…What is he to you, Arthur? Allen, I mean."

Allen is nothing to Arthur. He has never known Allen Reed from London. Since they met more than ten years ago in the military, he has always known Eames, the forger, the thief, the charmer, the good man gone gray-side.

But he isn't sure if she knows about Eames, isn't sure precisely how much Eames told her. So he keeps it simple. "He's my partner." Let her make of that what she will.

"…You aren't why he left." It was neither a question nor a realization. A simple statement of fact.

_(Arthur felt a bit of rage boil up in Sherallyn's defense. Did she not know why Eames left her either? Had Eames never told her? She, of all people, deserved to know)_

But Arthur can say with certainty that the answer is, "No."

"Sorry. That was rude. I don't mean to sound hostile."

Arthur waves the comment away because he can't really blame her. Not after all this. "It's fine."

She studies him with an expression that Arthur knows because he's seen it on Amara's face, looking for answers. "You're a good man."

Arthur blinks at her because not many have described him that way. Particularly not people he's only met three times. "What?"

She laughs a little, a breath away from a true one and the sound is warm in the London grayness. _(Arthur could see why Allen had fallen for her, why Eames still loved her after everything)_ "No need to sound so surprised." She runs an approving eye over him. "He's always had very good taste."

Arthur isn't sure how to handle that. He's had plenty of people come on to him, men and women in varying degrees of intensity, but Sherallyn is frank and honest and uninterested in such a way that his mind doesn't quite process it at first. "Isn't that a little bit biased, coming from you?"

She stares at him for a second before the laughter bursts from her. "Touché, Arthur." She looks around and asks, "Wanna get a coffee?"

She leads him into this tiny little café that's shoved into an alley. She curls into the corner booth like she belongs there and the waiter brings her a coffee without taking her order. Arthur just orders coffee with milk on the side and makes it to his own liking at the table.

Sherallyn's fingers tap a rhythm on her cup, a slight clinging happening every time. Arthur's eyes follow the sound to the source, a slim gold band on the fourth finger of her right hand. He knows this ring, has seen its near twin on Eames' hand when they met. He knows that Eames still has his on the same gold chain that he wears his locket. For some reason, he hadn't expected Sherallyn to still wear hers it had been over ten years since the divorce, after all.

"So," she begins. "What, exactly, are the dangers of dreamwork?"

"What?"

"I want to know what I might have to deal with. I've lived with soldiers; I know the ramifications of that. I want to know what the ramifications are of dreamwork."

A thoughtful sip of coffee. "…It's not so different to be honest. Lots of lost sleep. Weird spikes and drops in energy. Night terrors. Addiction."

"Addiction like a medical addiction?"

"Yes. If someone gets away from the chemical we use to go under—it's called somancin—they can go through a…dulled version of drug or alcohol withdrawal. Sweats. Temper. Shaking."

"Is it usually addictive?"

"The drug itself? Not terribly. Most people have no issues weaning themselves away. The addictive part of it is the dreams."

"The dreams?" Sherallyn repeats. "I don't understand."

"They're not the dreams that you have at night, though some things are still the same. Under the somancin, you are entirely conscious. You can feel, see, smell, hear and touch everything. It's like the real world. But you can manipulate however you like, in whatever way you can imagine. You can bend the laws of physics. Can create worlds that don't exist. Buildings that can't exist, out in the real world. It's—" Arthur struggles to find a phrase that suits it. "Pure creation."

"Sounds like it'd be easy to forget what's real and what isn't." And he sees the grounding element of Sheral now, the thing that had been able to ground Allen Reed for eight years. She's imaginative and intelligent, but firmly rooted in reality.

"That's one of the major dangers. There have been plenty of dreamworkers who've ended up in asylums."

"How do you wake up? I can only assume there's some kind of trigger or something."

"How do you wake up in a regular dream?"

She thinks about it as she stirs her coffee. "…Falling, I suppose. Or dying."

"Exactly. You either make something in the dream to mimic that feeling of falling or you kill yourself or are killed."

Sherallyn sits bolt upright, eyes wide with realization of the implications of Arthur's words. "…And if you can't tell what's real and what isn't…"

Arthur nods grimly. "There are plenty of instances of that too. Dreamworkers thinking they're in a dream when they're in the real world and—" _Throwing themselves out of a window thirty stories up on their anniversary night._ "Committing suicide," The two words come out a little choked. "To try and wake up."

"You've known people who have done that, haven't you?" Her eyes are sympathetic as she studies him.

"…Yes. I have."

Her hand clasps his. Hers are dry and warm, slightly rough but no calluses. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. It was…a long time ago."

For a second, Arthur thinks that she wants to correct him, to add something, but she seems to think better of it and retreats, her hand returning to its place on the mug. "I needed to know. I won't leave my daughter out to dry for this."

"Never a doubt in my mind about that."

"You don't even know me."

"I know a little. And that's enough to have guessed that."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a little judgmental?"

"I tell myself that every day, actually. It's a boost for the self-esteem."

She nearly chokes on her coffee with laughter and she catches the smirk before he hides it by taking a sip. He's a delightful man, really, once one gets past the professionalism and the politeness. Allen's never directly told her how close he and Arthur are—not that it's ever been a secret to her that he swings both ways—but from his monthly calls, she's been able to piece it together. And she can see why they work, a strange balance with enough of an edge to each of them.

_(Secretly, more than once, she had sort wanted Arthur to be cold and rude and unlikeable to make it easier on her. So that it would be easier to hate this man. And there wasn't a whole lot of reason to hate him, really. He hadn't even known Allen before he left for the military. Hadn't known Allen when they were married. He hadn't had any bearing on their falling apart at all, but sometimes, Sheral just wanted someone to blame. Now, she was kind of glad she couldn't blame Arthur, glad that Allen had managed to find someone like this)_

"…She'll be okay." Sheral's eyes flick up to meet his. "Amara. She's…she's tough. She'll get through it all just fine."

"And how can you tell that?"

"Well, my judgmental feelings aside…she takes after you in a way she doesn't with E-Allen."

"You think so?"

"Mm."

"Huh. I've, uh, I've always thought the opposite. I look at her and I see so much of Allen."

"It works either way. Allen's worked his way through dreamwork and he's come out just fine." It wasn't a complete lie, but neither was it the strict truth. And perhaps Sheral sensed that, but she also knew she needed the reassurance, so she let it slide.

**Eames can get homesick.**

Four months wasn't so long, really. Particularly not when it came to long cons like the one Eames was doing. Enough time to establish just enough trust to get the job done. Supposedly. Arthur knew that Eames could be more than charming if he wanted to be and Eames knew how to get complete strangers to trust him.

But it had been four months with limited contact after only a few days of rest from another job that had taken almost three weeks. It got exhausting. Particularly these days. They weren't twenty-five anymore, able to be constantly on the move without rest. Even to Arthur, who was meeting Eames at the Los Angeles airport after two days at their small flat there, trying to sleep off the exhaustion and failing.

Eames was easy to pick out of a crowd when he wasn't trying. And when you knew what to look for. Loud shirt aside, he had a certain way of walking and there was instinctive movements away from cameras and guards.

Arthur watched Eames scan the crowd—Arthur was much harder to find in a mass of people like that. Particularly when he's dressed in civilian clothes, not his suits—and he saw the expression when he spotted him. It didn't take more than a few strides of Eames' long legs to reach him and Arthur found himself swept up in a tight embrace, even lifted off his feet a little as a nose buried in his neck and a smile curved against his collarbone. _(Arthur's aftershave always lingers on his scent, as well as the smell of book pages and coffee. It's one Eames has come to associate with home.)_

He was surprised for a minute—Eames hadn't done this before—but he relaxed into the hug the next moment, wrapping his arms around Eames. "Welcome back, Eames."

A warm chuckle that vibrated his entire body. "Careful, darling. Someone might actually think you have human emotions and were missing me."

"You're one to talk," Arthur replied tartly, leaning back a bit so that he could see Eames' face. There was tiredness written in every line and the beginnings of dark circles. "Hard job?"

"Unnecessarily long-winded, more like." He felt Eames studying him back. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Three days, give or take a nap here and there." And they hadn't been the good naps, the kind that felt like you'd been asleep for hours underneath the afternoon sun. They'd been too short and had given him no rest.

"You run yourself ragged without me."

"And you picked up my bad habits." Arthur was only too aware of his ability to forget to sleep.

"In that case," Eames murmured against his lips. "Why don't we go remedy that?"

"What you're thinking won't get either of us any sleep."

"Ah, but it'll be much more enjoyable."

Pulling away, Arthur jingled the keys in his hands, the sound trailing behind him as he began walking away. "No time to waste then, is there?"

**Eames is good at domesticity.**

It's a strange thing, to see Eames not working. To know that he wasn't when Arthur was. Because the last time Yusuf saw Eames, he'd looked at his bad leg and said, 'You need to get that looked at.'

Arthur hadn't been blind to it. He'd seen the slower pace, the occasional grimaces of discomfort and the sometimes hour between Eames waking and his being able to get out of bed for the pain. But he hadn't known how to say what Yusuf did. Mostly because, up 'til now, it had been them. Just them, as far as doctors go. Except for the life-threatening injuries, the ones that needed actual surgical skills. But this, this was a life-long thing. Arthur knew that Eames' leg would bother him until the day he died, just like his own scar did on those scorching, dry, noon-in-middle-of-summer days.

And they had. They'd gone to a doctor so that they could take a look at Eames' bad leg. Under an alias, of course. They weren't stupid.

Arthur could only imagine the conversation, sitting outside in the waiting room with only _Entertainment_ magazine for company. He could imagine the shifty eyes once they heard about being an ex-soldier. Could imagine the sympathy at the scar. _(The scar isn't so bad, really. It isn't quite round, slightly warped by healing and age, but it is pale tissue, even against Eames' light skin. It's noticeable, but barely. Even Eames never knows why people look so horrified when they know where it came from)_

But Eames came out with the news of scheduled physical therapy, that his muscles, as he grew older, were naturally growing weaker and the cartilage in his knees was wearing ever thinner, something that was causing the pain when he stood or even sat for too long. And the thinning cartilage was putting strain on the slightly twisted muscle tissue of his leg—thanks to the scar—and causing more pain.

They sat in the car and Eames wasn't able to meet his eyes, preferring to watch the world outside. "…I can't work like this. It's too risky. If something goes wrong, I won't be able to make it out in time."

Arthur, forever the designated driver between them, didn't take his eyes off the road. He's glad he's driving; it gave his mind something to focus on other than the conversation. "How long is the therapy?'

"Three days a week for three months."

After a moment of hesitation, Arthur offered, "Do you want me to stay?"

Eames' eyes rose to meet his. A fond smile tilted his lips. "As much as I appreciate it, darling, you'd go mad staying home for three months with nothing to do."

"I could do it."

"Of that, I have no doubt. But you don't have to. It's alright."

"…I'll work less," Arthur suggested. They were both starting to get good at compromising. It had only taken them the better part of their lives.

"…You're a good negotiator."

"Don't act like you don't like the idea."

"Of course I do."

And that had led to now. Arthur getting back from a job, suitcase behind him and exhaustion dragging at him. The neighbor had smiled at him and waved, asked him how that wonderful young man of his was doing. Arthur had replied distractedly because he didn't usually speak to his neighbors. Ever.

And when he came in, the apartment was somewhat clean. Not quite to Arthur's usual standards, but cleaner than he'd expected. And he smelled food. Real food. And there was some cop show playing on the TV and Eames was folding laundry.

"…Should I be checking my totem?" Arthur asked, slipping off his shoes and going to leave his suitcase in the bedroom before coming back into the living room.

Eames didn't turn around, having heard the key in the lock. "You're hilarious."

"I thought the moment required something. After all, who knew you'd make a good housewife?" said Arthur, smirking a little as he leaned down for a kiss.

Eames bit him slightly in retaliation before pulling back. "I get productive when I'm bored."

"Apparently." Arthur sat on the side of Eames that didn't have a strange structural organization of laundry. "How was therapy?"

"Tiring." Arthur caught the itchiness of Eames' fingers. The therapist had insisted he stop smoking. Arthur could have told the therapist how bad an idea that would be. But Eames was as good as ever at keeping up appearances. He smoked only one cigarette a day—he made it last too—and when he washed his clothes and the scent lingered, he said his partner smoked. But both of them knew that as soon as the scheduled therapy was over, that Eames would be back to his usual amount.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"A bit. It's sore now, mostly. Doesn't really _hurt._ "

Arthur hummed in understanding and reached for some of the pile of laundry in the basket at Eames' feet. "So, what're we watching?"

" _Castle_."

"Interesting choice."

"I got sick of _NCIS_ after a week straight."

"I'll bet. What smells so good?"

"I'm trying out new recipes, since I have so much time. It's a chicken soufflé." Eames glanced over at Arthur, who was working a little too hard to keep a straight face. "Is there something to share with the class?"

"No. Nothing at all." His brown eyes were very shiny with held in laughter. _(The image of Eames making_ soufflés _of all things will make Arthur laugh for years to come)_

"Uh-huh."

**Eames likes feeling useless about as much as Arthur does.**

"We need to find Tommy," Amara said, sitting in a rickety chair.

"He won't tell us anything."

"No," she corrected Arthur. "He won't tell _you_ anything. If I can convince him I'm still on his side, he'll tell me."

"A triple agent."

She stood up. Her feet were restless and her body couldn't decide what it wanted to do. "Well, you know us government types. Completely unreliable. The hard part is finding him."

"No, it isn't." They all looked at Charlie Anderson, red streaking down his face from his hairline. "I can find him."

"You can't go alone," Arthur told her. "We don't know what'll happen over there." He stopped Eames' words before he said them. "And you aren't at full function ability right now. You'd only be cannon fodder."

_(His words should hurt more, but Eames understands that this isn't just Arthur talking. This is Arthur the Point Man and he does whatever's necessary to do his job. Eames wants to go, to protect his daughter, but he knows he can't do it nearly as well as Arthur can.)_

"…I'll stay here. I can put up plenty of mental defenses. No problem." It's a false sort of optimism and Arthur knew it. He also didn't have any time to be playing mental nanny to Eames.

"We need a signal. Just in case he manages to get over here."

Arthur saw Eames' eyes tighten in concentration and a second later, green lightning flashed and thunder rolled. _(It's something that Arthur doesn't even need to think about. In his mind, it's bad news, always and something he will recognize in a heartbeat)_

Amara watched the exchange and wasn't sure how to think of it. She'd known they were close and she knew their working relationship; any studies of the best dreamwork teams had included their names, almost always together. Arthur-and-Eames. Point man and forger for some of the greatest mental crimes that never happened. And while she hadn't seen any physical evidence, she could guess their actual relationship.

"Get going. The sooner you find that kid, the sooner we all get out of here."

Arthur and Eames exchanged a look before Amara, he and Charlie were headed out of the smoky-smelling room _(Arthur doesn't know what to make of the alcohol scent, doesn't know what this building means to Eames at all)_

"So where is he?" Arthur asked, following Charlie as he made a sharp turn onto a slightly less weedy street, but the vines clung and grew all along the walls.

Charlie hopped in a car with a bobble head dog on the dashboard. "You don't trust me?"

Amara slipped in the front seat before Arthur could. Arthur accepted the backseat without complaint. At least this way, he could watch their backs. "You haven't given me a whole lot of reasons to yet, but I'm also curious."

"Your brother will have led them away from everywhere that would lead to any of you. He's strangely protective that way." Charlie handled the car like a street racer, fast with sharp turns and constant gear-shifting. "And he would have put him in a situation where he's unlikely to be able to make a run for it."

"That gives us an opening," Amara said. "I can pretend to save him."'

"Sounds like a plan. Hopefully he doesn't question it too much." Arthur kept looking out the back windows, gun in hand.

"He won't."

"Does he know?" Arthur asked, this time looking at her. "About you and Eames?"

"He might suspect, but there's no proof to be found anywhere for it. After all, Allen Reed is still living a cookie-cutter life with an occasional ticket or spending spree on Amazon as far as his bank statements are concerned."

Amara really had done her homework, Arthur thought. To keep up appearances, he and Eames took turns making payments on an apartment in Paris and a motorbike. "Then he shouldn't have a whole lot of reason to question it."

Charlie drove up a hill to a sprawling plot of land, rocky with red-brick dirt. There was a crumbling farmhouse perched at the top of the hill. Charlie parked low, so as to keep out of sight. "He should be up there. I'll stay here, out of sight and I'll keep the engine running just in case."

Arthur nodded before looking hard at Amara. "Go on ahead. I'll cover you from behind."


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard.

_Love is much like a wild rose, beautiful and calm, but willing to draw blood in_   
_its defense._   
_~Mark Overby_

* * *

**Arthur is not invincible.**

The call came in at 3:47PM. Eames didn't know the number—already a rarity for very few people in the world had his number—but he did know the area code. It was local.

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon, I'm calling from Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago. Is this a Mr…Eric Robertson?"

One of his many aliases and also one of the lesser used ones. "This is he."

"We have you down as the emergency contact for a Mr. Connor Mills."

It was Arthur's alias, the one whose name the apartment was under. "What's happened?"

"Mr. Mills was in a car accident earlier today."

_("Charles Anderson was killed in a car accident…" Charlie's body, blood dripping from his hairline, his eyes empty, still in military dress…)_

"I'll be right there."

Eames didn't remember the twenty minute trip to the hospital. Didn't remember how he got there or any of the people he passed. _(It should make him paranoid, should make him check his totem, but it doesn't)_ He remembered staring at his reflection on the train and imagining the new tattoo, a red die encircled by dog tags which had no name. Just two words. _Semper fidelis_. And he knew where it would go. Directly over his heart. But Eames forced the thought out of his head—didn't need any new nightmares after all—and he strode into the hospital and to the desk.

"I'm looking for," Not Arthur, his mind supplied. Connor Mills. "Connor Mills. He was brought in today."

The nurse took his name, checked it with the records. "The doctor should be finishing up with him. Room 264."

The moment Eames entered the room, Arthur's eyes met his. _(Not empty and there's no blood on his hairline or anywhere on him…)_ A moment to remember who they were with the doctor finishing up on the cast. "…Eric?"

"Everything alright?"

"More or less." Arthur shifted his left shoulder just a bit and Eames noticed for the first time the bright blue cast on his arm. _(The doctor had offered a green one too, but Arthur doesn't like the color green)_ "This is the worst of it. And I'm a little sore. Nothing serious."

_(Tonight, Eames will look Arthur over, fingers brushing over a few bruises, mostly on his left leg from jolting against the side of the car and carefully tracing down his arm until he met the cast. He needs to see for himself that everything's okay and Arthur doesn't protest, doesn't question…)_

Feeling a little calmer—Arthur was talking, was able to stand and walk. He's _okay_ —Eames asked, "What happened?"

"Some stupid bastard ran a red light as I was crossing. Hit the passenger side."

"Did you talk to them?"

"Yeah. That stupid bastard said he was on his phone."

_(It had been some teenagers texting and at times like these, Eames wants to believe in a higher power because he doesn't think he could've handled someone else dying like that)_

The doctor stood upright. "Alright, Mr. Mills. You're all set. You're going to want to keep that arm elevated for two days as much as possible, even when you're asleep. I'd suggest a lot of pillows. Don't get the cast wet—and for that, baths are usually better than showers if you can. I used to tell people to use a plastic bag, but I hear they sell a cast cover at some pharmacies now. I'm giving you a sling—you don't have to use it, but a lot of people prefer it to help keep the weight a little more distributed."

"Thanks, doctor."

"Any problems or questions, don't hesitate to call. You have my card?" Arthur held it up between two fingers. "Great. I'm also prescribing some pain medication. I don't think I need to tell you not to take it more than necessary. Possible addiction and all that. I want to see you again next week to see how you're adjusting."

"About how long will the cast be on?"

"Roughly six to eight weeks. Your fracture wasn't as bad as many I've seen, but it still takes a while. You were lucky, Mr. Mills."

Arthur glanced at Eames, whose shirt sleeves had ridden up a little, just enough to glimpse the tattoo on his shoulder, a moon hooked around a sun. And he thought of Charlie Anderson and said, "Yeah, I know."

**Arthur sings when he cleans the bathroom.**

Eames never let him know that he was there. Even though Arthur probably already knew. Or at the very least, he didn't register Eames as a threat on a subconscious level. Otherwise, Eames thought he would be facing down the barrel of a gun.

After every bullet hole and stab wound, there was always blood to clean off the bathroom floor. And usually from the entryway too. Arthur had a process to his cleaning. It involved copious amounts of bleach, soft scrub and a lot of scrubbing. When it was Eames that was injured, he'd knock out on the bed for a good hour or so afterwards. In that hour, Arthur would have already cleaned the blood from the entryway and through the living room and would be only a bit through the bathroom.

And the little radio he stole from the kitchen would be playing one of Arthur's many CD's, lowly so as not to wake Eames. And when Eames usually woke up and found Arthur still cleaning, he'd lean against the wall by the door, just out of sight, to listen.

" _…Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love, Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up."_

Arthur never sang loudly and he wasn't some great undiscovered talent. Not that he was terrible either. He was average, acceptable as a singer, would never win _American Idol_. But Eames liked to listen.

" _Pour some sugar on me, Ooh, in the name of love, Pour some sugar on me, C'mon fire me up…"_

And of course, what better information to tease him with?

**Contrary to what Arthur likes to believe, Eames has a sense of honor.**

They'd gone drinking before. That wasn't so strange. Usually after a job or a particularly long drive. But Arthur rarely got drunk. In truth, he barely let himself get tipsy. _(One night, perhaps ten years later, Arthur will tell Eames a story of a dirty cop who got in too deep, who started drinking. And it won't hit Eames until a few days later, when he's thinking back on the conversation, replaying it and linking it up with his memories that he knows why Arthur doesn't like drinking too much)_

But after this particular job, they wouldn't have to worry about money for a few months. This was the most they'd ever made off one job, so far. This would be the job where people would start learning their names.

For now, though, it was just two partners and yeah, Arthur could admit it now, friends, in a bar down in Louisiana, enjoying the sense of freedom. They talked well into the night, a curvy bartender constantly refilling drinks.

The strange part was how neither of them noticed just how much they drank. Not until they stood up to pay the tab and the world went sideways before righting itself. Mostly. They helped each other stumble outside and up the stairs of their terrible little motel to their room. It took them a moment to figure out who had the key and it took some fumbling in pockets before they found it. But as Eames struggled for the coordination, the key scratching the area around the lock, he heard Arthur call him.

Eames turned to him and Arthur's lips were on his. It was sloppy and messy and how were they both not dead from alcohol poisoning yet? And he wanted to go farther, wanted more than this. _(It's been a little over two years since he first met Arthur in the military, a little over a year and a half since they stole the PASIV. And it's been about a year since Eames' flirting went from purely playful and teasing to somewhat serious)_

But he forced himself to back up, to take a step away _(And he doesn't want to because tonight, Arthur has been comfortable with him in a very different way, much more open, but he knows if he doesn't back off, that tomorrow morning, Arthur will probably hate him)_

"Not tonight, darling," he told him. Eames slept on the floor that night to avoid any temptation.

Tomorrow, Arthur would wake up with a fierce headache and a certain hatred for light, his head buried in the pillow. And Eames would wake up with aches in his back and more in his head and a violent need for aspirin and toast, but when Arthur looked over at him about a half an hour later—neither willing to move—and asked groggily if he did anything last night, Eames would just say, "Well, you might've had a rather short affair with a stripper, but other than that…"

And Arthur would snort and Eames didn't have to see him to know the expression on his face and this was a far better way to spend the morning than the alternative.

**If his brother is anything to go by, the world is lucky that Arthur has such a firm grasp on sanity.**

Eames jumped nearly a foot in the air when he saw him. Bloodied and worse leaked out of bullet holes all over him, his eyes standing out with their vivid, poisonous green. Arthur had really done a number on him. His knees were bent out of shape and his vital points had all been hit with the usual Point Man precision.

"What're you doing here?"

Those eyes looked over him and a familiar expression of raised eyebrows was given. "You look like shit." He leaned back against the wall. "What'd you do to make them want you this bad?"

"What didn't I do? And you haven't answered my question."

"Well, with your girl, Charlie and Cameron on their way over there, someone needed to be here to protect you."

"Somehow, I have issues believing that from you."

Arthur James Reynolds snorted. "That's a personal problem."

"You're my subconscious."

"Then _you_ tell _me_ why I'm here."

And he didn't know why. Arthur James Reynolds had been in Eames' mind for years now. He didn't talk, usually. Not unless Eames went too deep. But he was never protective. Not like this.

Arthur James Reynolds sat back on one of the rickety chairs, sitting cross-legged, his elbows on his calves. "You don't know."

"It's my subconscious. I'm not _supposed_ to know."

"You can keep telling yourself that."

"Or?"

"Or you can get your act together and figure it out." There was a sharpness to his tone that Eames recognized, that Eames associated with Arthur. "Honestly, are you going to let a drug slow you down this much? Your sanity sort of depends on it. Cameron's sanity depends on it. Hell, your own _daughter_ needs you."

_(Eames always thinks that, as Arthur James Reynolds is but a part of his subconscious, that he would also call his brother Arthur, not Cameron because Eames never considers him that way)_

"Everything's cloudy and fuzzy. I can't work."

The green lightning flashed through the projection's eyes as he unfolded himself from the chair, stalking forward and Eames automatically, instinctively, starts stepping backwards. _(Eames looks for the silver knife that he always associates with Arthur James. Looks for it and can't see it, but he knows it's there)_

A slow tilt of the lips, not quite a smile, but neither a smirk. "Afraid?"

No point in lying to his own subconscious. "Yes."

And there was the knife, balancing easily on Arthur James Reynolds' fingertips as he slowly spun and flipped it across his hands. Eames didn't watch the blood-stained blade; he didn't want to know what could be reflected out of it.

"And I'm not even touching you. Can you imagine that lovely little girl of yours? How afraid she must have been?" The knife caught the light perfectly, highlighting the bloodstains. The projection of his daughter's blood. "And that wasn't even real."

"It felt real to her." That much, Eames knew. He knew how real dreams could feel.

"True. But all I had was this one single knife." The green eyes glanced up to meet Eames'. "What will others do? If she betrays Interpol and goes on the run, what will the world do? They have worse things than I do. What will that partner of hers do if he finds out about all those opportunities she's had to capture you and Cameron and she hasn't taken them? That's obstruction of justice, at the very least. Aiding and abetting, probably. And worse. You let him live and she gets dragged into a mess worse than you can imagine, which is saying something."

"I assume you have a solution." _(Because this is his daughter, his beautiful, headstrong, intelligent daughter. Sheral would kill him if anything that Arthur James said happened to Amara. Not that he wouldn't consider doing the job himself)_

Arthur James Reynolds grinned, a terrible, teeth-baring, dark grin. "Don't play stupid, Eames. You know how easy it would be. To leave him trapped down here." Because this was limbo, of a sort. It hadn't been an on-purpose thing because the drugs dragged them down here, connected as they were through the dreams even if Eames had been the only dosed. And it would be easy, so very easy, to just give that partner of hers a _push_ and leave him down here to go mad.

Eames wouldn't pretend that the option wasn't tempting. _Very_ tempting.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe.

_I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love.  
-Francis Sagan_

* * *

**Eames likes to play tourist.**

He did it where he could. Took tours through the cities and the ruins, always with a camera in tow. Eames liked to photograph things, Arthur had noticed. He photographed architecture, of course, interesting places where the road curved a certain way or an archway from a certain angle.

He liked people too. Liked the way a woman's skirt folded at certain angles, creating an interesting play of shadows. Liked the stretch of a shirt over shoulders. Liked how, if the clothes were thin enough, you could see the skin underneath. Liked a delicate ankle framed by a shoe. He liked the curves on women, liked the differences between them. Liked to capture certain shades of hair or eyes in the sun.

Arthur knew it was part of how Eames researched, unconscious as it could be. Which one of his new forges would have that strappy sandal or that particular pattern on a shirt? Arthur liked to look for the details in the forges, to try to guess who was this person made from? _(It shouldn't be something beautiful. His forges are made from pieces of people, like Frankenstein's monster, but it manages to be something almost otherworldly)_

**Eames likes poetry.**

There were very few books that they didn't share. Not because they were unwilling, but it was more a matter of taste. Arthur, for instance, can't stand poetry. Or rather, not long ones. He could take short doses, but he was never particularly fond of the flowery language.

But Eames loved it. Loved the metaphors and the pictures it painted in his head. He also said that something about the structure of poetry—never the long paragraphs of prose—made it easier for him to read, as far as his dyslexia went. And sometimes, on those nights when one or the other couldn't sleep from the nightmares _(Because dreams and nightmares are two very different things and just because they can't dream anymore doesn't mean that the nightmares don't come)_ , Eames would pull one out to read aloud.

One of his favorites was one about a kingdom by the sea.

" _It was many and many a year ago,"_ he began. " _In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me."_

Arthur wouldn't deny that it was kind of soothing to listen to him—not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

" _…had a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven, Coveted her and me."_

Eames explained to him, once, on a sad Tuesday as he stared at the neighbor's potted plants on the balcony, that his mother had loved poetry. Used to read it to him at night. Arthur knew two things about Eames' mother—she liked gardening and loved poetry.

_"The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me, Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)"_

Usually, Arthur would drop off to sleep before the end of the poem. Once, his curiosity struck him as to how it ended. So when Eames went to shower, Arthur sat up, crossed his legs and put on his glasses. He opened to the dog-eared page and read:

 _"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams_  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee  
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee  
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,  
In the sepulchre by the sea  
In her tomb by the sounding sea,"

Arthur closed the book with a chill down his spine. No, he didn't like poetry. Not at all.

**Eames is a fairly deep sleeper.**

Arthur trusted Eames at his back, trusted him to hear a threat and respond, trusted his instincts. But that didn't mean that, at all other times, Eames could be qualified as a deep sleeper. Arthur didn't know how his mind registered the difference between threats and usual noises—his mind certainly couldn't do it while he was asleep—but whenever Arthur was still awake, clacking away at keys, sometimes going outside to get some air, he could sleep right through it. And sometimes, with a little snoring involved.

The thing Arthur couldn't understand was how Eames could sleep through the Def Leppard and AC/DC that would play from the radio that Arthur liked to keep on while he worked and wake up when Arthur would go into the room to put on his pajamas without making a sound and Eames would begin to stir. He wouldn't wake up all the way, but when Arthur would crawl into bed beside him, he would tug him closer—with a somewhat conscious amount of strength—and settle Arthur beside him before he went back to sleep.

_(He pretends to know nothing about it in the morning, of course. Arthur knows better)_

**Eames is as much a soldier as he is a forger.**

"Tommy?" Amara called into the farmhouse.

"Amara!"

She glanced back and saw Arthur crouched among the tall grass _(There's a flash of his brother, for a second, in her imagination. She doesn't allow herself to feel the fear that goes with that flash)_ before running in.

Charlie had been right. Arthur's brother had left Tommy without the ability to get away. The unnatural angle of his knee made her want to flinch. There was a cut going diagonally across one cheek, from temple to jawline. Tommy was half-supported on a chair and he still had his gun in one hand.

"Jesus Christ, Tommy."

"The projection left," Tommy's eyes were slightly wild, a little panicked and a little desperate. Amara couldn't blame him. "I don't know if it'll be back."

"A projection did this to you?"

"Yeah. This guy is seriously fucked up."

Amara frowned, moving forward to inspect the damage. Arthur's brother had done quite a bit of work. He hadn't been shot in the knee, it wasn't that clean. It looked more like his knee had been stomped on. "Why?"

"The projection wasn't normal. It had been shot, like multiple times— _fuck_." His face twisted in a grimace as she accidentally prodded too hard. "A bullet right through the head, the heart, its knees, everywhere. And it was still walking and talking. It was a soldier, I think. It was wearing fatigues and dog tags."

Amara pretended to think about it. "He was in the war, wasn't he? In Afghanistan? Maybe it was someone he knew."

"We have to get out of here. The projection might come back."

"Here," Amara offered her shoulder and managed to help him wobble to his feet. "We should get out of here. Abort this job. There'll be other opportunities."

"We can't."

Amara let temper flood her voice. "And _why not_? What are we after that you're willing to go through this for it?"

"He's a criminal. Needs to be brought to justice." Most of his weight was on Amara as he tried to keep off the broken knee.

"There's more to it."

"He stole from the government."

"Not ours. What did he steal?"

"The PASIV? And who knows how many secrets he's stolen and sold from people's minds? He's forged government papers, money, everything. We can't let him stay out."

"What else?"

"Nothing!"

"You're lying. This is personal, isn't it?" Because agents didn't go this far, were this dedicated without being invested. She would know.

"No, it isn't."

_(Amara thinks back on it all. Thinks back on two years of investigations, two years of being partners. Thinks back on lunch conversations and quiet comments on stake-outs. Remembers finding something in common, knowing that neither of them had grown up without fathers. And how there were never details, on either end)_

Amara decided that pretending to give up would work for now. "Why'd the projection do this to you anyway? Why not just kill you?"

"I told you he's a sick bastard. Probably likes torturing people."

"Or maybe we all know there's something you're not telling us."

Amara and Tommy both looked out. Arthur had stood up from the grass, gun leveled at Tommy. She felt him tense, as if to go for the gun in his waist band, _(It's him, the projection, but not. This one is whole, no bullet wounds, no joints at angles they shouldn't be, no blood. But it's_ him _, he swears it)_ but she moved first, slipping her arm out from around his shoulders, grabbing the gun as it went and pointing it at him.

"If you kill me, I wake up. You know that as well as I do." Tommy said through groans and gritted teeth. His leg couldn't support his whole weight on its own.

"Not here. You'd stay down here forever."

Tommy looked at her. "Why're you doing this? You turning into a criminal?"

"No. You lied to me, Tommy. This was supposed to be an easy job. You never told me about the drugs before I went under. You could've killed me. And you wouldn't have cared."

"Of course I would have."

"Another lie? Really? Because I know you. You'd care when you're in front of the review board trying to answer their questions. And that's it."

Arthur spoke up then. "And your bosses don't know, do they?"

Tommy stared at him. "And what do they, supposedly, not know?"

"About your father, the criminal. Stole quite a bit of money from a company called Cobol, based in Mombasa. And he did well, too, hiding that money. Did so well, in fact, that Cobol hired some extractors to get the information out of your father's head. But he was fragile, mentally. Some clinical depression, anxiety and some PTSD from Vietnam tossed in. He broke, in that dream. When he woke up, he saw things. Everywhere. Didn't he? Ended up killing himself in the bedroom with an illegal handgun. Forgot to lock the door, didn't notice his eleven year old son walking in the room."

_(Amara hadn't known even a piece of all that. And yet, Arthur says it with little emotion, little empathy. He's cold now, in a way that Amara hasn't seen him go. She can see now, why so many people try to stay out of the Point Man's line of fire. He's ruthless, when he wants to be and knows just where to dig to get the reaction he wants)_

Tommy stiffened, his good leg trembling with the effort of holding all his weight. "How'd you know that?"

Arthur didn't answer. "The son worked through school, graduated with honors—not without some intensive therapy—and he's going into university. Gets recruited a few days before graduation for Interpol. And somewhere in his years there, he puts the pieces together and decides to get revenge for his father. The whole team that Cobol hired. It had been so long ago that no one was really putting the pieces together. Dreamwork's a dangerous business; people are killed all the time, so no one thought twice about it."

"You're…not wrong."

"I know."

"But you can't stop me."

"I want to see you get anywhere with that leg."

"Don't have to." A gun appeared in his hands and he seized Amara around the shoulders, bringing her towards him, the barrel at her head. "Your bullet's not faster than mine. Less distance and all that."

He stiffened when he felt the press of Amara's barrel against his stomach. "How's that for less distance?"

"I can survive that. You can't."

"Maybe not, but you'll be stuck here in agony for _decades_. Do you know what a stomach wound does to a person? They're supposed to die within about twenty minutes to half an hour, their blood and stomach acid leaking out. But you won't die here. Not for years. You'll stay there while you poison yourself alive, unable to even stand."

_(Arthur thinks she has a spirit very different from both her parents. A little vindictive, a little angry with the skill to back it up)_

"But you'll be dead."

"And I'll get out of the dream first. I'll wake up and I have ammunition on you to leave you in a cell to rot."

"Not for that long."

"Maybe not. But who're they going to believe?"

Arthur knew something about patience. Knew something about reactions. And he knew that if he shot, if he changed anything, as soon as Tommy felt anything change, his hand would pull the trigger on reflex. And Amara was a very good bluffer, but there was no guarantee of getting out sane. So he stayed his hand, trying to think of something.

Arthur froze at the feeling of something whizzing past his ear. The next instant, Tommy's head was thrown backwards, his finger never getting the message to pull the trigger.

Arthur whirled around, looking for the source of the shot.

"Re _lax_ , Cameron. You're so jumpy these days."

Amara and Arthur both turned towards the voice. Arthur James Reynolds was standing just a little ways off, standing being a strange term with his knees bent like that, a smirk on his lips, hands shoved in his pockets. _(It_ hurts _to see his brother like that, even though Arthur knows he's the one who put his twin in that state, that it's just a projection, not even his real brother)_

"What're you talking about?"

Arthur James Reynolds' smirk turned a little terrifying with its dark edge and the gleam in his eyes. "All he needed was a little _push_."


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur flinches at fireworks.

 

* * *

 

_"It is not the fearless one should admire. It is the one who knows fear, stands with knees that wobble, grasps a sword that shakes in their hands and still fights that deserves my admiration."  
-Anonymous_

* * *

**Arthur flinches at fireworks.**

He's fine the whole day. He plays with Phillipa and James, kicks the soccer ball around and scoops them up onto his shoulders. He gets in a water gun fight with them and laughs when he skid-slips and he smothers a hot dog in ketchup and mustard.  _(This is the man Eames loves. This warm, loving man that can go cold, that can be so mercurial)_

Even when the kids ask him to light their sparklers—it's not favoritism. Eames is helping in the kitchen and watches on and off—he's fine. Eames sees the slight tension as the end flares, but he doesn't move, smiles with the kids as they race through the grass.

It's when the neighbors start their fireworks that Eames sees it. A flinch backwards, a curling of the fist and back, like a half-feral fetal position.

_(The pop and explosions, the bursts of color and sound, they make Arthur's instincts react. He wants to get away, wants to sleep it off. It's why, on most 4th of Julys, Arthur borrows a few sleeping pills of Yusuf's and would lie to the kids, say he was tired and knock out on the guest bed until morning. But he hadn't this time and Eames sees him fighting every urge to run)_

So he calls Arthur over and Dom goes to lift James onto his shoulders so he can see better.

He tugs Arthur closer by the hand when he comes into the kitchen. Arthur doesn't fight it—he doesn't do that much anymore. "Darling?"

"I'm fine, Eames."

"Liar. Want me to run out and get some pills at the drugstore?" He knows Arthur is capable of going himself, but Eames has this small fear that with all the fireworks going on today, Arthur will flinch while driving and the car will swerve and _(Charles Anderson was in a car accident…)_

"…Please? They'll be going off all night."

Eames kissed him lightly. "Sure. I'll be back in five minutes. Ten with traffic."

**Arthur loves to learn, no matter the subject.**

It's two and a half years that they'd been doing this. Dreamwork, even if the farthest they'd gone was Canada and Mexico.  _(It's been two months since Arthur had drunkenly kissed him. Eames pretends that, like Arthur, he doesn't remember a thing)_

"You're going to what?" Eames asked, setting down his beer before he spit it out over the table in shock.

"I'm taking some time off."

"Why? The both of us finally have some momentum."

"Yes, we do," Arthur agreed, his hands absentmindedly folding and unfolding the bar napkin. Eames wondered if he was trying to make a paper airplane. "People are going to start coming after us now."

"We can handle it."

"We can't know that," Arthur looked up, eyes serious. "Unless you can make me a  _guarantee_  that we could handle it, I'm still taking the time off."

"What for then, since you already told me why."

"I'm a good shooter," Eames thought that that was rather an understatement. Arthur shot with a certain precision and coldness that most people could never get away with. "But up close, I'm nothing more than a street brawler."

"Worked out fine for us before."

"In a dream? Where anything can happen? Physics are defied every day in dreams. I can't take the chance that it'll leave me incapable of fighting."

"So what's your plan?"

"I found a place in Chicago that teaches judo and kenpo. I want to learn to fight properly."

"Chicago?" Eames wrinkled his nose. "Gets cold over there, doesn't it?" He still remembered winters in London, not always cold enough to snow, but cold enough to be freezing.

"All the better." And Eames remembered that Arthur wasn't very fond of the heat. Or, if he had been, after Iraq, he certainly wasn't anymore.

"How long do you plan to stay there? It'll take a while to master those."

"For a few months, at first. I can't stop dream-working. Otherwise, I have no source of income. I can't legally get a real job since I'm wanted and all."

"I think you'd come up with the money somehow."

Arthur rolled his eyes and took a sip of his soda. Sorry, 'pop' as he called it. "Yes, I'll become the greatest drug dealer in Chicago and have the entire city under my thumb within the month."

Eames tilted the beer bottle at him. "That's what I like to hear; big dreams."

Arthur laughed at that. "Aren't you always saying the one I need to think bigger?"

"Clearly, I'm teaching you something if you want to be the greatest drug dealer in Chicago."

"Yes, because doing dreamwork is a much smaller idea than that."

"Perspective, darling." 

He didn't protest to the pet name anymore. He mostly ignored it now. Eames figured it was a step in the right direction. "So what're you going to do?"

"Dreamwork, naturally." It felt strange to even think of doing something else anymore.

"Sure you'll be okay?" They'd worked jobs without each other before, of course, but this felt different somehow.

"'Course I will. And if needs be, I can always go back to forging papers. Besides," Eames grinned cheekily across the table. "You're getting rather good at patching me up now."

"I should try for a medical degree at the rate you're going," Arthur muttered into his glass.

"That's just silly. You'd be a terrible doctor, what with your bedside manner."

"Oh, screw you, Eames."

"Get in line."

"Can't be all that long, can it?"

Eames' grin turned wicked. "I could show you just how long it is."

Arthur chuckled as he stood, dropping some bills on the table to cover his half of the bill. "I'm not that desperate. I'll see you back at the room, Eames. Or not, if there really is a line."

"What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Not you."

"Ooh. Ouch. So hostile."

Eames waited for a response, but Arthur was already out the door.

**Arthur hates silence.**

It's something strange that Eames hadn't even noticed really, not until Ariadne mentioned it over lunch on that very first Inception.

They were waiting for their food when she said to Arthur, "You get really into your work, don't you?"

"What?" Arthur looked up from taking a sip of his water.

"I tried getting your attention a couple of times today, but you didn't respond. Or was it the headphones?" She'd thought it was strange, really. Arthur seemed the type of person who needed calm and quiet around him to work. And yet, she'd managed to catch occasional strains of whatever music had been playing from the mp3 player tucked into his vest pocket.

"A little bit of both, actually."

"Don't beat yourself up, Ariadne," Eames told her, squeezing a lime into his beer. "It takes a practiced hand to distract him."

"Or an obnoxious shirt," Arthur shot back, looking pointedly at the rusty orange…thing…that Eames tried to pass as a shirt.

Eames laughed.  _(In truth, he hadn't thought much of it, but for as long as Eames has known him—which is something like eight years now—Arthur has, whenever possible, had sound. In his apartment, it's the little radio that Arthur keeps tuned to classic rock, but whenever Eames is over, he switches it to jazz and blues. He sings or hums when he cleans. He likes the bustle of the city. In Eames' flat, he never mentions the old fan that is constantly creaking)_

Arthur looked over at Ariadne. "Honestly, I just like the noise."

Ariadne hummed in thought as she dipped a fry in ketchup. "…You're a surprising man, Arthur."

_(She will never know that it isn't just a fondness for sound, for music. Eames might guess the truth though. Arthur hates the total complete silence, the kind where white noise buzzes in your ears and the air is thick because it reminds him of after the explosion. Directly after. When he stumbled about, vision fuzzy and spotty and for a good few months afterwards, he was partially deaf. Thankfully, it had been only temporary. But the reason he keeps the noise is because it stops him from remembering the silence of his brother, of his constant presence and warmth and restlessness)_

**Arthur is a strange kind of optimist.**

The dream fell apart. At some point. Tommy's death sent a few shockwaves through the earth and Arthur didn't know where Eames was. He knew only that Amara was with him. He eyed the shaking ground.

He grabbed Amara's arm. "This is our way out." Arthur tried to project his voice, to make it echo across the dreamscape so that Eames could get the message, but he had no idea if it worked. He'd never tried it before, but there was a small window of time that this could be done in.  _(He doesn't want to be stuck in limbo, not for eighty years. And he won't allow Amara to be down here either.)_

He felt her arm jerk against his hand, an instinctive, panicky movement. "What is?"

"Earthquake opens up the earth and we fall."

" _What_? No way in hell—"

Arthur interrupted her. "It's the only way we're getting out of here before we're eighty. Do you trust me?"

And Amara stared at him and he saw the moment she made her decision _(He's saved her life, he's trying to save her sanity and he's trying to protect everyone, but he can't and he's making a choice here, her over her father, the sure save over the possible one)_ "…Yeah." And even if she didn't, did she have much of a choice?

"You have to go with the fall, understand? Don't fight it. You're going to want to—it's instinct. Don't."

It was the first thing that dreamworkers had to learn; overriding the survivalist instinct and letting oneself die. It was something that a lot of people never learned properly and it was the reason that a lot of dreamworkers—having never learned to do it—went insane after a while. The mind warred with itself.

And from the looks of it, the government wasn't teaching that to their Interpol agents. That was comforting.

But Amara nodded, mouth tight. "Okay."

And the earth shattered beneath them, plummeting them into darkness.

_(The last thing Arthur remembers seeing is his brother's eyes peering down from the edge of the hole…)_

* * *

He woke to gasping and coughing. His mind wasn't on right, he knew that. It was still recovering, but he forced himself up and found the room spinning. Closing his eyes tightly before opening them again helped a little and he managed to get himself to Amara's chair.

"Hey, hey, calm down," Arthur grabbed her shoulders. "You're hyperventilating, calm down. Look at me—there you go. Slow down—deep breaths. In….out. In…and out."

_(He's had too much practice with this, with panic. His body responds to it still, but his mind stopped. As if everything slows down. It makes him good at his job though.)_

Amara shoved him away with more strength than he would have thought she had, wobbling to her feet and slipping something from her pocket. He couldn't guess what her totem was, but he felt his dog tags, their engravings and nicks familiar to his hand. He felt the weight of his die, even rolled it twice, just in case.

She hadn't turned around yet. "We're out?"

"Yeah."

He watched her pull herself together, watched the things that would haunt her nightmares for years be shoved into the back of her mind to be dealt with later. "What about dad?"

Arthur looked back at Eames. He was breathing still, the barely-there breaths of the dreaming, but he crossed the room and checked his pulse anyway. "He's alive."

"But he's not out. We can't just leave him there."

"Of course not." Arthur rolled out a line from the PASIV, checked the chemicals inside. He didn't trust whatever drug was in there, if there were any remnants left of it—his stomach was a little queasy and he had a fierce migraine—likely the side effects. Weighing the possible effects of going back down with traces of the drug still mixed in or refilling it with a clean batch of somancin—and therefore changing what was being fed into Eames' tube. But the effects on Eames' consciousness were unpredictable because of that.

"What if you get stuck down there?"

"I won't."  _(It's half a lie. He has no idea what's going to happen down there. He doesn't even know if Eames is going to be able to come up, out of limbo. But he isn't about to tell his only daughter that)_

Amara crossed her arms over her stomach. It made her look smaller and a little fragile.  _(Arthur knows that look. He's seen it on Mal. On Mina and his own mother. He hates that look)_  "You can't promise that."

"No," he agreed. "But it still won't happen." Mind over matter and maybe it had some weight in their line of work. It's strange. He and Amara were on opposite sides of this, but they were still in the same line of work. "You're on guard duty."

She shifted her weight like she wanted to move, to do something. Arthur couldn't guess what it could be. But she didn't move. She just set her jaw and said, "Okay."

Arthur slipped the needle in his skin  _(In another life, perhaps, he's a druggie. This movement is so easy, so smooth. He already has the scars lining his arms. Perhaps in another life, his brother still died. His brother died and no one ever thought to look for the other twin. Perhaps Cameron Reynolds, never going back to Vermont, faded into obscurity out on the lonely roads of the Midwest. And that life flashes before his eyes as he lays back and he sees Amara activate the PASIV…)_


	44. Chapter 44

* * *

 

_Sometimes, the only available transportation is a leap of faith.  
-Margaret Shepard_

* * *

**As much credit as people give Eames for how observant he is, it isn't enough.**

It's a few weeks after Fischer's inception, when they're sitting on a bench in a forgettable city, that Eames brought it up.

"How  _did_  you drop us, darling?" he'd said, looking at him. "While the van was falling, there must've been no gravity up on your level." He'd certainly felt lighter on his, had made jumps that he'd never be able to do at normal gravity.

"There wasn't." Arthur finished off his can of soda before explaining the elevator.  _(He can still feel the railing on the elevator wall in his hand, burning because he was holding it so tight…)_

"Ingenious," Eames murmured. "You forced gravity to happen." Arthur had always been clever, had always managed to pull through for jobs, but never in this spectacular of a manner. Blowing up an elevator. Incredible. Then a thought struck him. "But, Arthur—the explosion—"

"It's fine," Arthur interrupted. "I was fine." Clutching at the railing, terrified of what he was about to set off _(His brother's weight tackling him to the ground, covering him…the remnants of a mirror image's face and a tattoo hardly visible through the burns…)_. It had gone against every instinct to let go of the rail so he could allow himself to die. He hadn't been able to breathe, coming back to the airplane, the terror still frozen in his throat, in his lungs.

Eames leaned forward, eyes narrowed at him. "…You're lying."

"Eames, everything turned out alright. We're all alive and we're all sane. It was a good day."

"…That's why you wanted to go drinking that night, when we got into LA. That's why you invited me along." Arthur avoided his eyes. Something about that movement made Eames' temper snap to attention. "Dammit, Arthur, say something!"

The words made Arthur stiffen, jabbed at a fire inside him. "What do you want me to say? That being right in the middle of that again scared the shit out of me? Fine, it did. But that doesn't matter. It needed to get done, so I did it. End of story."

" _Not_  end of story. Have you even slept? At all?" Foreseeing Arthur's next point, Eames barreled on. "And I don't mean where you drunk yourself to sleep because I know that's what happened." The first night, after both of them lay exhausted in the sheets and even then, Arthur hadn't slept long. Eames heard him wake in the early morning. "I mean real sleep."

"…No."

"Arthur…"

"It's not like I don't try. I just can't." It hadn't happened in a long time. It used to happen more often, but it hadn't been so many nights in a row since his brother died. He used to wander the military base then. He tried wandering the city now, but he was too tired. Not physically, but mentally. He didn't want to wander. Just sleep. "It'll go away."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't really get the right to make an opinion now, do you?" There was still anger between them, still that tension that Eames was afraid would never go away.  _(He deserves it, a bit, he supposes. He'd pried, when Arthur specifically told him not to. And Arthur had retaliated. Because that's what Arthur does when pushed. And here they are)_

Eames chose his words carefully. "…Darling, I think I'm one of the only people who  _does._ "

"I can take care of it, Eames." Arthur was pushing himself to his feet. Eames followed him.

"By exhausting yourself. Not by actually  _resting._ " Eames grabbed Arthur's wrist. Perhaps not the smartest move when he was agitated, but it was all he could do. Arthur whirled on instinct, twisting to try and free his wrist, but Eames kept a firm grip. "Arthur, please, stop. I don't want to leave you like this."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"I never said there was. I said that maybe you could use a little help right now. But apparently, you don't agree."

Arthur still felt the anger inside him, the anger from Eames' prying, from Mina's email. Anger at himself, a little, for stooping to Eames' level, for going all the way out to Sheral's house. It had been justified, but that didn't mean that Arthur liked doing it. In hindsight, anyway. "…What do you want?"

"Just a week. Cobol's not after your head anymore. Saito got them off your back. You don't have to keep running." It had been weeks of travel, never resting, never staying for more than a few days in any place. And half the time, they'd slept apart. Their drunken night directly after inception—only half-drunk, in truth. They were still plenty lucid enough for decision-making—had been the extent of their intimacy. "Let me try and help. Any way I can. And after a week, if you want me to sod off, then we go our separate ways until the next job."  _(Because there is no point in pretending they're not going to work together. Despite whatever is going on with them personally, their lists of trusted persons is short. And the list gets a lot shorter when it comes to work)_

Eames could see him, weighing the pros and the cons, taking into account whether the both of them wanted to be stubborn or not. "…One week."

**Eames hadn't been a wine-drinker until he met Mal.**

Eames jokes about how people speak about wine one night. They're sitting on the roof in uncomfortable, plastic chairs that creak with any weight. It's muggy and hot—as French summers tend to be. His feet are up on the banister and he sniffs the wine before tasting it.

He hums and Arthur can tell that he's been saving this by the look in his eye. "This is a…bold wine, with a hint of sophistication."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but keeps drinking. He hadn't grown up with very much wine in the house—whiskey, definitely—but not wine. He likes it, likes how it can be sweet or sour.

Mal is curled in an her plastic chair, her white sundress wrinkled and her hair—long enough to start going down past her shoulder blades—loose and lightly tangled by the wind up here. She smiles at Eames. "That movie was right, you know."

"About?"

"Wine. It  _is_  like people."

"And how would you know for sure?"

She smiles fondly, hints of sadness at the corners. "My uncle had a vineyard. I was there every summer until I was fifteen."

"What happened when you were fifteen?" Arthur asks. As a general rule, he doesn't ask people too many personal questions. Not because he isn't curious—because he is—but because he always figures that people have their right to withhold their answers. That doesn't mean he doesn't go looking for the answers himself, but he doesn't usually ask the person directly.

"My mother decided I needed to focus on more 'practical' pursuits than wine-making. She was afraid I would fall in love with it and she didn't think it was a suitable career for her only daughter. So she never let me go back. Not until I was twenty-two and attending my uncle's funeral."

"I'm sorry," Arthur says sincerely. He wishes that he had gotten a chance to know his uncles that well. His mother had three brothers—one that lives in Ireland, one in Pennsylvania and the other over in Arizona. He had only ever seen them on the big holidays and it wasn't enough to really know them. He wishes he had some family member to be that close to, his grandmother to tell him stories and show photographs of her and his grandfather or his aunt on his father's side to help get him and his brother into mischief. But he's never been close with his extended family, has hardly ever met his cousins. His entire world has always been made up of his brother, his sister and his mother. Until now, at least. Now he has Mal. And Eames, somehow.

"Was she right?" Eames asks quietly. "Your mum."

"About what?"

"Did you fall in love with wine-making?"

A small chuckle. "…I did. I think it will…always be that one thing that you look back on and wish you could do differently. You know how some people want to finish college and others have that person they met once and never met again, but they wanted to? Wine-making is mine. I loved working with the vines and the smell of the grapes fermenting and the cellar where my uncle kept every bottle. I loved the limestone and the lavender—well, no, not really. I hate lavender, now, thanks to that house."

"Lavender?" Arthur's perplexed. He's always been under the impression that lavender is one of those staple scents that all women like.

"Yes. We used to keep it in little boxes in the windowsill to keep out the scorpions."

"Really?"

"Mmhm."

"What happened to the house? And the vineyard?"

"It got sold. My parents couldn't afford to keep it and our house at the time and they didn't want to uproot me from my studies or from my father's job at the university. So they sold it. I—I have this dream sometimes—usually on nights like these, in the summer—that I'm walking through the house and I see my uncle and he gets up and hugs me and asks how I am, how the family is."

"Family?" Eames and Arthur say at the same time.

"Yeah, the family. And I laugh and say I brought them this time and I see two little shadows run in—there's no faces, no colors, but they run in shouting  _grand-père_. And someone walks in behind them, but that's where I wake up."

"What happened to our independent woman who only wanted her career?" Eames asks cheekily.

Mal aims a light kick at his calf. "I'm still here. I don't even know why I have that dream—I can't imagine myself with a family. But it happens every year. At least once."

"It's a sign," Eames says gravely. "You're doomed to spend your life as a housewife."

That makes her laugh. "Sounds more like a terribly boring nightmare."

_(In a year or so, perhaps less, she would no longer be able to dream of her uncle's vineyard and the family she didn't want, but would end up getting. She wouldn't be able to dream of anything anymore…)_

**Eames has a talent for changing while driving.**

Medically speaking, Arthur shouldn't be driving. That was Eames' logic when he snatched the keys and got behind the wheel.

Arthur still thought he'd be safer if he drove with a concussion, but the medical world didn't think so. Then again, the medical world hadn't been in the car with Eames driving.

"They have a description of us, Eames," Arthur said, holding his balled up suit jacket to the back of his—bleeding—head. He'd gotten his head bashed into a wall less than twenty minutes ago. Eames didn't look much better—a cut above his eyebrow—shallow and it had already stopped bleeding and he'd likely be bruised tomorrow. Arthur could practically feel his ribs turning black and blue.

This had been one of those jobs where, in the dream, things had gone pretty much according to plan minus some variations that couldn't always be accounted for. It was once everyone woke up that things went down.

Which led to them being here. In a stolen car with Eames as the driver.

"That's not a problem, darling."

"You're going to have to explain that one to me."

"Open our bag and toss me the shirt?"

They had a bag between them with spare fake ID s and clothes. Arthur managed to pull out one of Eames' shirts and held it out. Eames grabbed it and put it in his lap before using one hand to unbutton his shirt. As he drove, nearly swerving them into other lanes as he did and Arthur kept on hand on the 'oh-shit' handle on the door—the entire world shifting between fuzzing and in focus, Eames slipped out of his shirt and into the new one.

They stopped at a red light. Keeping one foot on the brake, Eames slipped out of his pants and into a pair of jeans that Arthur passed him with no small amount of wriggling. Arthur dug in the bag and found a Yankees baseball cap. Eames put it on.

"Well? How do I look?"

"You look like a tourist."

Eames grinned. "Exactly." Still at the red light—did it ever turn green?—Eames leaned over and checked the back of Arthur's head. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm gonna be sick."

"Do you need to get out?"

Arthur started to shake his head, but thought better of it. "I'll be fine. Some sleep would be—light's green."

Eames went, but he kept glancing back at Arthur. "…You could sleep now."

Arthur gave him a look. "We're on the run."

"It'll help sell it. There's a blanket in there to cover up the bloodstains." Some of the blood from Arthur's head had dripped to his collar. The shirt couldn't be saved now.

Arthur eyed him warily—not because he didn't trust him, but because he wondered exactly how much Eames had managed to pack in the backpack. He dug through a bit and found a tightly rolled up airplane blanket. He spread is out and it managed to cover to about his knees.

"Sleep, darling. Or at least try. I'll wake you."

Arthur didn't want to—or rather, he really  _did_  because his head was killing him, but he didn't want to do it  _now._  But he also knew that, if push came to shove, he wouldn't be very useful right now. Not with the world spinning and constantly going in and out of focus.

Eames felt it when Arthur managed to doze off. His tension was gone, his shoulders relaxed. If they actually managed to get out of the city, the forger would have to wake him at—he checked the clock—2:30. An hour from now. Both of them had had enough concussions to know the drill. Eames was careful to drive the speed limit and to blend in with everyone. No use getting caught for stupid reasons now.

* * *

 

They were stopped on the way out of the city. It was 2:27. Eames rolled down his window obligingly and moved his hand subtly to nudge Arthur's knee. It was enough to spark him out of his nap, but not enough to make him go on full alert. For now, he was pretending to stay asleep.

"Good afternoon," the cop said, leaning down to see into the car. "Where are you folks headed?"

Eames smiled falsely, innocently. "Headed back home. Took forever to get here from the airport," Eames tugged his voice into a flat, Californian accent.

"Really? What was at the airport?"

Eames jerked his thumb at Arthur. "My cousin. Lives in North Carolina. It's grammy's eighty-second birthday tomorrow and she made him promise to visit."

"Why's he so tired?"

"Finals," Eames said easily. "Kid's one of those nerds that loves to study. Apparently he was up 'til one in the morning to get up at six so he could get to his airport. I keep telling him that he should just wing it, but hey, what do I know? I never even finished college."

"No luggage?"

"Nope. He's leaving on Saturday. Grammy's tried telling him that he should stay longer, but he doesn't like West Coast."

"Lot of east coasters don't. Carry on. And tell your grandma 'Happy birthday' for me."

"No problem. You have a good day, officer." As Eames drove away, rolling up the window, Arthur shifted upright.

"I swear they're getting dumber."

The forger laughed. "Always possible. You know how it is with television rotting kids' brains."

"So that's what happened to you."

Eames snorted, switching lanes to get out from behind a slow car. "Well, now I know you're going to be just fine. That concussion didn't seem to rattle your brain at all."

"I'm touched by your concern," Arthur said, shifting into a more comfortable position. Some bones in his spine cracked satisfyingly. "It just warms my heart."

Chuckling, Eames pulled out a cigarette. "Give me a light, won't you, darling?"

Arthur was already holding out the lighter. Eames inhaled, the nicotine calming his mind. He rolled down the window and rested an elbow on it. The radio crackled until Arthur found a rock station. Just like old times. Well, almost. At least now they had air conditioning.

**Eames knows what it is to grow old alone.**

Arthur woke on a rocky shore, waves lapping at his feet and a pebble digging into his shoulder blade. It took him a moment to blink to full awareness, staring at a dark gray sky. He rolled over and pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his back.

The dream had changed since they'd been gone. It was quieter, atmosphere wise, but there was still that undercurrent of tension.

"Eames?" Arthur shouted, wincing a little when he heard it echo back to him. "Eames, I know you're out there!"

He climbed up to where the waist-high grass was once again. "Eames!"

No reply other than his own echo.

Deciding to try another tactic, he called, "Arty! Amara!" And who had the other projection been, the one in the dress uniform with the horrible sweater overtop? He'd seen the sweater once, in an old photograph, but there was never a name to go with it. Well, he could guess, but it was a long shot. "Charlie?!"

"You came back."

Arthur turned to look at the speaker, who—if his hunch was correct—was Charlie Anderson, the best friend killed in a car accident. He was sitting on a boulder, one knee raised so he could rest his arm on it.

"Of course I came back. I wasn't going to leave Eames down here."

A long, analyzing look. "You took a long time."

Ice slipped down Arthur's spine. "How long?" No reply. "How long, Charlie?"

"Longer than you think."

"Where is he?"

"He moves around. You follow that road," Charlie pointed. "You'll find him at some point."

"Thanks."

The path was half-there and half-not, sometimes dirt, sometimes cobblestone, occasionally concrete. The grass was always waist-high, but sometimes there was lavender growing in the fields,  _flamboyan_ trees flowering. There were buildings, sometimes. Old apartments and a storefront, one that Arthur recognized as a café in Mombasa.

"Arthur?"

He nearly didn't recognize the voice, but he whirled around as soon as he heard it. And then he couldn't find his voice to reply.

"Darling?"

The voice matched the body. No longer a mismatched, Frankenstein's monster of different people. His face was wrinkled and well-lined, all color from his hair faded. Arthur hadn't taken more than two minutes or so back in reality, calming Amara down and making the decision to use the same somancin, but translated down here, it was something like sixty years.

He finally found his voice. "Eames."

The forger was settled on a worn, weathered city bench nestled in the sand of a lagoon's beach. His weathered hands were resting on a crooked cane. "Are you real?"  
Sixty years. Stuck in a dream that he couldn't escape  _just in case_  it was real. The thought was a terrible one.

Arthur nodded. "Yes, Eames. I'm real."

"How do I know that for sure?"

"That depends."

"On what?" He sounded tired, the heavy, life-tired.

"On whether you trust me or not. Do you?"


End file.
